Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #49

I thought I was done
with parties in tiny houses
where you decorate red, plastic cups
with black markers,
where you gather around in circles,
your feet tucked underneath your legs,
because there aren’t enough chairs
for everybody,
where bags of chips lay untouched,
and empty pizza boxes
litter the floor –
the floor wet with muddied shoes and
melting winter,
where midnight sets the toll
for swinging hips and spilled beer bottles,
where bodies brush against each other
in the middle of drawling conversations
by the narrow hallway –

I thought I had graduated to
adult gatherings during holidays,
holding wine glasses against the light,
while eating little food set in tiny plates,
wearing high heels clicking against marbled floors,
laughing dryly at jokes aimed at
managers and executive directors,
reaching over to shake invisible dust
from your co-worker’s blazer,
just to briefly relish
the closest thing you can get
to human touch.

But last night I jumped at the opportunity
to throw a used copy of On the Road across the room,
to someone eager to take it home –
despite warnings from everybody
that it was a “masculine, self-indulgent tripe”
because I would take
casual discussions of literature
on a stomach empty except for Heineken,
any day
over ceviche and antipasto skewers
served on golden-lined plates
meant to be admired
rather than devoured.


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