SF at night

The puzzlement sends our night into motion -
"Who the fuck is Wills?" we bellowed,
as our spittle rains on train strangers,
legs evade turnstiles,
trenchcoat tails trailing behind
being the only evidence of our petty nastiness.

"Wills, my ass", we say,
even though Wills will surely fire us
because the dough lies in a lump on the boards
and we are on the street,
letting skoal fall from our lips into teapots,
dropping a quarter into a newspaper stand
then taking eight,
wadding them up by the water
to hurl at one another, thus
distracting us from our hacky-sack circle.
The sun indulges, staying low like an accomplice,
and we are gone by the four a.m. police sweep,
bewitched by authority / enticed by a score.