Memorial Day

Memorial Day. The sun is punching through
the threadbare residue of the cumulous clouds,
a hazy veil of indigo sky heralding the ordained
invasion of summer. The battalions of young
libidinous girls march in formation as they cruise
the unkempt thoroughfares of downtown Portland,
their uniforms of skintight shorts, and miniskirts,
unmask newly shaved legs scintillating with the
lubricating dew of perspiration. Their breasts, scantily
obscured by bikini tops and low cut blouses, jangle
with the penetrating goose steps of their high
heeled sandals. The volunteers of this estrogen
brigade are flourishing fuchsias aspiring to be
harvested from the yielding topsoil of their
birth, a desperation engendered from the
eroticism of the antiquated spring.

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