By Jorden Blucher
We four proceed into the night
minds masked by alcohol, our laughter and voices stretching before us.
Dressed not as ourselves we make our way
into the mayhem of sports fans and pirates.
Kitchen passes in hand we play wingman as best three married men can.
The crush of the crowd grows as creatures of the night emerge,
their dress revealing their inner-most secrets.
An old man, his nightly ritual to sit at this bar alone,
looks up from his beer stein, eyes sparking,
barely clothed maidens talking through him.
He appears so happy for a moment before being masked again by the crowd.
We make our way out to the wild yet seemingly quiet streets
to another bar
where calm is shattered by the band and yelled conversations.
With time growing short,
our wingman duties complete,
we head for home in the cool mountain night.