Saturday night on Atlantic Avenue:
flashy cars slow-mo on restaurant row
as a see-and-be-seen crowd
crosses wherever. Laughter.
Smoke from grills, cigarettes, weed.
I have shish kebab on my mind,
the final night of a poetry festival.
Must have passed the Laundromat
Dozens of times without pause.
Must be the fluorescence that limns
faces this Saturday night: people making
change while making eyes, could be.
Could be singles night for the lonely —
between relationships, between jobs,
between homes, shifts. Hands smoothing
tee-shirts, stacking jeans, while sneakers
in the dryer summon a disco beat.
Could be me.