Swinging

Those were dancehall days,
at 2am between brick buildings
with all the light focused outward
while we hid behind clear glass.
What could they see?
Wild smiles and disheveled spirits,
thumping it up against the old desk,
knocking over the banker’s lamp
in our zeal for excess and music.
Those were days of harried flight,
the crushing weight of pain
tipping the full cup of youth
until we spilled all over the floor-
a syncopated bubbly mess.

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