by Debra Girard on Friday, April 22, 2011 at 6:36pm
Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
Are we still the same? I don't feel any different
Aren't we supposed to feel brand new?
Sans taxi we trudged through two inches of broken glass.
I didn't realize that taxis avoided downtown during such merriment.
A small group of young Italians,
waving the Red flag and chanting slogans
" Ach- Communists" he grumbled
Crunch, crunch crunch! Crunch crunch crunch!
Running and streaming, we had to dodge the bombs made with firecrackers
lit and placed very deftly into champagne bottles
that restauranteurs, pub keepers, tourists had thrown into the crowd.
And various European tourists. And the tourists.
We reach the bridge
The Bridge. Once having a pleasant earthy scent of ancient wooden beams and brick
now reeks of piss and vomit.
And gun powder. Pervasive gun powder mixed with the acrid smell of burning hair
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