People, dressed as if for the parade, lounge or loiter on sidewalks;
carry bright bags; sport frayed and mismatched clothing.
Up the street, boisterous children
peddle fifty-cent cups of lemonade-against-the-war.
Sirens undulate through intersections —
their lights bellowing: Look! Look now!
No marching band follows. The drum beats
rise from inside a glistening sedan. See
how exquisitely slow it passes; its windows
Darkened; its hood ornament freshly polished.
This is Jackson Square,
where homeless and hipster cleave as one.
This is not part of anything sanctioned. This
is the real party.