Shame in the City

Their skin, exposed. My skin covered.
Beneath the coat an embarrassed sheen sweats
until it pricks with heat. Skin becomes
as pink as a plaster. Cuts deep.      Age.

Like cattle to market, we queue in grids,
make our way to the Bouncers.
Inner voices screaming loudly.
The young worry about ID, the old being laughed at.

Turning back is an option, thought by collective minds
as we move closer to destination club, a few dance steps
at a time. Weaving our way into bright lights and loud music
where we can forget who we are, for a while.