The Evening Wear Migration

There's this thing 

you see down wet December streets

on cold saturday and sunday mornings.

A woman walking in heels like stilts,

shivering in a cocktail dress

all darting raccoon eyes and rum perfumed

making her way home 

from the holiday party

and the drinking 

and the dancing

and a pick up night 

in a strange bed.

Dana calls it The Walk Of Shame.

I don't see shame in that walk.

I see narcissism hung over.

They clack clack the sidewalk with bleary resignation 

cross-examined by daylight.

Channels of memory

replay last night's sophistication

lost in smears of lipstick 

and tequila.

The evening-wear migration ends

up the steps and through the door

in a hot shower and breakfast later with friends

dressing events in whole cloth 

of indiscretion and bravado.