Today there are strange, flightless birds.
They preen and strut, they pass in an endless pageant
of wenches, fools and dumb-show grotesques,
they glisten like plastic and spilled beer.
Today is nostalgic belief in some primal order
of things — the ritual, drunken gaiety,
the oily wigs and sweat-stained frocks,
the lupine smiles of desperate men,
their eyes as deep as the corner drains.
This is the new year in Philadelphia.
And this is the way things need to be —
the feathers and sequins of faith
and assumption, the gaudy illusions
of paupers and pilgrims,
and finding oblivion.
— George McDermott