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Battered Closet Doors
The rainbow squad swarms up over the ridge. The rhythm of pounding hearts enter the village of fire and brimstone. Their only protection: pink triangle shields. The villagers scurry, men grab their britches, saddle old Betsy. Women snatch up their kids; head for the celler. Their only weapon: Homophobia. Dikes on bikes lead the parade, dragging battered closet doors. Closet lesbians in open BMW's and '57 Chevies twirl leater purses like lassos above coiffured heads. Drag queens perched on red convertables' folded roofs preen and scream, Oh girlfriends, look at the welcome committee. Ready or not dahling we're crashing your party. Closet three piece suits flap in the wind. Construction workers muscles buldge in sweat drenched tee shirts. Silk ties are swirling batons. Safety helmets become frisbee. Guccis and steel toe boots hight step over bramble bushes and gopher holes. Flanking both sides of the rainbow squad. A beleaguered minority sheds the burden of standing alone.By- shirley
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