  Here's a poem. On our way out of the parking ramp a herd of bachelorette-partying secreteries cross our path like ducklings. Like ducklings, except when she sees us one grabs her crotche and licks her lips. We make the mistake of eye contact. Dozens of hands pound on the car. I think of hail until One celebrant makes an obscene gesture against my window with an inflatable penis the size of a premature infant. 
