People stack their shoes like shells drawn into a pile,
as if by boys burrowing for snails. Some sling
their sandals casually over one arm. There will be
dancing once we set up the cardboard dance floor.
Gummy and pleated with all those feet. A piece
of cardboard taped to a crate is where we ask a fee
for entry and a donation for the spiked lemonade.
The girls are in printed dresses, floral
and herringbone, and glass-colored plastic beads,
or cigarette pants, navy or white, and shell tops
with nautical prints or shells on them.
The boys are smooth. They are elegant.
There will be artists in there, and girls
want to mingle with the pink set. A tent
of night eyes. A mass of bodies clanging
in a wet night. The mud roof collapses
into the tin. Our room falls over.
Then, the party is in full swing.