The Loneliness Of Company
A party lingers in the stillness of a room.
Chairs moved, plates stacked, glasses
stained in red lipstick of after dinner
chatter. Cutlery criss-crossed, mosaic.
For a moment, when front door fits frame,
when lock links to latch, the breath of guests
gone hovers in air still scented by perfume,
by scotch; by hands shook, by the smoke of talk
fading.
A hangover of noise threatens. Looms like approaching thunder.
Sharp shooting light lashes down in distance, counting…
twenty Mississippi, then ten... five, then three, then -
the bubble bursts. A silent shatter.
Seats house ghosts and footsteps echo dust
as though a party never happened here:
the loneliness of company again.
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