Discotheque

Like all beautiful things,

that night was random and divine.

They stared up at the ceiling,

watching the shadows and the light.

“What’s that all about?” she asked.

“Someone’s getting arrested, I think.

Someone’s having a bad night.”

“Not me,” she murmured. “Not me.”

Like a strobe on a mirror ball,

the lights from the police car lit up the room.

The universe was taking their picture,

over and over

and

over.

Copyright Timothy Downs

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