The march of feet
stays in rhythm
with the pulsing beat
of club music
more intoxicating than
Jaeger, Jack, or Amarula.

The surrounding people—
more colorful than the neon sign—
are just as affected.
I watch their smiles,
their dancing.
Even the bouncers
admit the free spirits
in time with the music.

Except a white bouncer,
fairest of them all,
who abruptly
falls out of synch
and marches past me
to a different beat—
a beat of urgency and rage.

His fist meets a dark face
that blends in with the brick wall,
an African
urinating quietly near the trash bin.
The innebriate’s body lies
in crimson blood
gleaming in the dark alley.

I sober up.
This is hate.
So this is what I see on tv,
read in textbooks,
what preachers caution.
My immediate reaction
is to gawk—
at the scene, at my reaction.