for Angie

     You and I at Alcatraz, again; even though we've always
     despised frat boys with their crisp khaki shorts
     and beer-clouded eyes, still, free is free,

     and we've been needing some loud, mindless activity.
     Speakers mix Jimmy Buffett with the latest gangsta rap

     as we drink vodka and Hawaiian Punch from paint cans,
     sloshing thin red rivers down our white shirts like war paint.
     Boys with names lost in the pound of the crowd offer

     to lap it from our necks, the sides of our breasts 
     as we curse and push our way to the bathroom, 

     where we are surrounded only by other girls, 
     all smiling too brightly and hopping to the beat 
     of their bladders.  A small, classy-looking blonde

     hoists herself onto a sink.  I can't take it anymore, 
     she says, and leans back against the mirror, 

     skirt hiked up, eyes half-closed in relief.  
     Later, we laugh too loudly as we tell 
     our interchangeable dates, but they think

     it's sexy.  An old boyfriend once told me 
     you run faster when you're drunk, that your body 

     forgets the speed at which it normally moves.  
     I can't remember why I left, or why you didn't 
     go with me, only how quickly I ran across the slopes 

     and hills of campus that night, the wind beating hard 
     against my bare arms and ears.  I didn't think I was fleeing, then.