the music changes to the beat of feet moving on a dance floor, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three-cheeeese!
this is an image of apathy being traded in like a late library book you’ve been meaning to return for months but instead just lay dormant in your bag, mute weight, but now you’re free! until someone passes you the pages of tomorrow and the faces of the morning paper sitting in the trashcan leave the corner of your eye as you turn back and are confronted (embraced)
by the sounds of


white roses, floating down, clutched in the hands of men and women alike, scattering the river of cobblestones with dove petals… and as if I’m seeing the tears of a good friend I can’t help but want to cry and sing and embrace the whole Zocalo shining in the sideways orange glistening just after a rain light an hour prior to sunset and it’s getting close to dinner time but no one’s leaving and we’re all wet together…


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