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Albion College
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We’re walking up the block of disposable cameras,
of snapshots, of neon tubes promising Hedo
Hot Nites, Games, Party. I’m sucking
fruit juice with vodka through a skinny straw—
a kilted man handed me the cup
before swallowing a pink hotdog-balloon
twisted into a sword. You’re looking out for ice cream.
Eligible bachelors, us, but women in jean jackets
with their own drinks fold their arms
under their breasts and glide off, to the bridge
over the trolley line. We toss the puppeteer
a few quarters. “Must not get started
until later,” and we walk down the brick,
past unattended bouncer stools, to the harbor.
Green and blue lights flash across the bay,
through an alley, blink against our shoes. You clap
my shoulder. A leather boot lies slump
in the gutter; I pick it up, clutch it in my armpit
as we head back to the square—
on this, balloon-sword-swallower, you may chew.
for Rich VanVoorst
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