After the Party
There comes a headache
when you want to disappear from the scene.
Head still cloudy with last night's drink,
Crumbling decor strewn all over,
Leftover food, stinking in a corner.
Not a chair, not a book,
In the way you had arranged.
And the whole place looks like a spooky madhouse:
Lacking only the cobwebs and cracked walls.
You roll up your sleeves
Scrub every floor,
Polish the silver,
Varnish the furniture,
Paint the walls,
And throw all the garbage out of your sight.
And you sigh.
It will be the same after every party?
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