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.
Submitted for: “After the Party”
Sponsored by: A. Slausin