Fortress

Fortress.

I see it that way,

with heavy doors and gate keepers,

well, the bouncers,

pulling glass doors with an extra grunt.

Girls with guys, girls with girls,

boys with men, girls with miniskirts

and heels that shuffle on the concrete

swarm into the building

and the line is hopeful to move once more.

It’s 12:28 pm.

So you could say it’s quite early.

The Minnesota breeze is actually

merciful in the summer

and I stand outside,

watching my friends giggle in the moonlight.

Other people with crossed arms

are waiting for texts to show on their phone.

I’ve just been walking in wet sandals,

the soaked leather making me seep into it.

I’ve been here many times.

And when I finally walk into the center

of a coliseum with moving bodies enveloping

each other from side to side,

I know what to expect.

The glass of vodka rum

nearly hit this one girl we went with;

I’m drenched in someone else’s sweat.

I can’t hear, but I can see my friend

dangling around in swarms of onlookers.

They wait for the best time to pounce like lions,

but alcohol is not liquid focus.

I’m tired; we all are.

We run out of the fortress.

I gasp and hold onto my knees,

staring at the half-eaten pizza lying

on the road.

Another friend is mumbling something

about her boyfriend.

I look up to the sky

and think how I’ve nearly spent my

utilities bill on this place.

But damn it was fun.

And I know

I’ll always be back again.