I attend a gallery reception in gritty Highland Park
Aztec and Black warm-skinned art
Forty or so sinewy night cyclists flash mob the buffet,
cast-off military uniforms
mixing with detached bearded gazers.
Cyclists have a side car sound system blaring techno.
I bite into a fresh fresh fresh slice of succulent melon,
little pinky appropriately aloft.
Pinky twitches to the techno and I am happy.