U-Square, ineptly named as it is nowhere

near a university, nor square, is a pentuple

threat, with a side-action kicker for observers

and participants alike.  Ostensibly a bus terminal,

high-end shopping zone, eatery, cultural landmark

and moovieland, the observant get a feast of love,

new, old, secret, on-the-move.  Lonely men arrive

for solace in the endless supply of pay-for-play ladies

offered up a doble-spinning barber poles, or waiting for

them in a room, maybe one they revisit on fridays. Then

the woman stealing to a third town, not hers or his

because, at their ae, they dare not get caught.  More

clandestine is the married non-car-owner who invents

time out of thin lies that, though known, go unprotested,

and that’s justthe bus part.  Men shop for their lovers,

women shop to attract a lover, the impossibly loveless eat.

Well-to-do, seen-to-be-seeners attend cello recitals or

comment on Kumho’s art while myriad sneaker-clad students

wander, yearning, in search of a better life, or at least a better

day.  Better days are ending chum.  Duck bullets and run!


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