Jungle Juice
We roamed the streets dressed as baboons and toucans. The party wasn't our scene, anyway: bad music and too many jaguars getting it on with Tarzans right there in the kitchen—the bedrooms being occupied with tigers, striped and stoned smoking Jumanji. So we prowled the streets with faces painted and a buzz in our blood. Blowguns chased us down Main; we swung vines across 7th. We met each passing soul with a batch of hoots and growls.
One A.M., we found ourselves in the park, sober, huddled on a bench. Through the trees, the sky.
The night sat chilly on the steps of October.
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