after getting off work early after working like pigs
at something they’re pig sick of. This is where they let
rockets off to the moon, where the moon glows
in fruit machine flashes and flashes of tempers burst
like fireworks bursting, obliterating the stars.
The stars are all over the pavement. The pavement
is strewn with celestial beings and extra-terrestrials.
Angels and extra-terrestrials are singing, singing
alleluias from every street corner. A busker is singing
in excelcis deo on every street corner in town.
The shout goes up and is hoisted aloft and carried
through town like a varsity rugby captain
hoisted atop his teammate’s shoulders and shouted
round bars like a saucy joke. Their shoulders are round
where they’re worn like a threadworn blazer or jeans
in the knees and crotch. They’ve been on their knees
all week and year, a decade of prayer. Praying the work
keeps on coming after the weekend. Until then their crotch
itches at denim and nylon skirts. Stiff nylon electricity.
