After the Party

The sound made by a sliding glass door running from the subtle tract of open air. Soon pane will face pane and space will replace itself in tiny folds of enormity. As waning day summons butterscotch tea and shadows longing for a thicker paste, your stance in the gap between May and June is summer still, no matter how cunning, as music made through gloaming rests at dawn. Yet, still you stand there, leaned against the frame, and ask of me, “Please wait for me, once more”. Your party starts at seven. My shame will come eleven, when you won’t know whose door you close to lock me out, left shattered on the lawn. 6/26/2019 Submitted for: “After the Party” Sponsored by: A. Slausin