The city hums,
deep, pulsing rhythm,
entrancing,
beckoning through the concrete.
She drapes her shoulders
in Haute Couture
and puts her hair up,
like a prize fighter.
One last look out the window
and every streetlight,
headlight,
taillight,
seem to beat in time
with her heart.
Child of the city.
Offspring of the tall, metal gods.
An elevator ride,
a cab ride
and then inside.
The line outside is not for her kind.
She’s injected,
mainline,
into the vein.
The flashing lights,
the club’s name
doesn’t matter,
it’ll be gone the next day
and no one will care.
Tonight is for the flair,
the red and white
neon lights,
the strobe
the bar,
and the dance floor.
She is slick with sweat,
her body hungry,
devouring the throb of the bass,
the beat of the drum.
Her large, dark eyes
drink in the colors.
Her ears soak in the sound
and she feels it,
deep in her bones.
Mingle and drinks.
Quick social functions
to please the functionaries,
with their little side-parties.
The upstairs party.
The downstairs party.
The bathroom party;
where the only lines crossed tonight
are drawn on the porcelain.
She ignores the politics,
content to move her body
blissfully on the dance floor.
Creature of light and darkness,
substance and shadow.
A panther stalking
the break beats
and the crescendos.
Denying every clumsy advance,
she steals out into the night,
leaving with the friends she came with.
Partners in crime,
a tribe
of high-rise dwellers.
Children of the steam pipes
and pavement.
Under a light polluted halo,
black winter night calls
back to high aerie.
Home,
an apartment with a view,
a shower
and a comfortable shirt.
She lingers at the window
and even in these small hours,
she can still feel
the city’s pulse
match her own.
HG – 2019
