Editor’s note: This poem was submitted by NolaVie reader Jarod DuVall about White Linen Night.
It’s impossible to stay clean in this city,
where alcohol flows as freely as sweat;
where we wear white linen,
but purity was long lost;
where we wave flimsy fans futilely–
flashes of blue among the white
unable to dry faster than sweat drips.
Sweaty skin collides, slides
in the pretense of culture and class,
but everyone thirsts on these summer nights–
seeking the next double shot drink,
ogling every curve and crease in the linen,
every passing bosom and butt.
Here we seek satisfaction
without knowing what we want.
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