The Party

The party began with a whimper,
but soon enough I couldn't move,
trapped in a corner by a blimp, or
should I say man, with a beer in his hand.
I had to crawl away, on my hands and knees
at a sub-party level, foam and spittle
rapping my skull like a snare drum.

When I emerged in a clearing, when I
stood back on my feet, my knees were damp
stains, my hands covered in lovers' muck.
I turned around and saw two tongues touching,
four hands holding, five golden earrings,
and a familiar face in unfamiliar fingers.
I wished I had stayed with the blimp. Maybe
he could have floated me over this to a safer
place. I turned for the door, homeward
to dry my slacks and drink to forgetting, for
I knew this party would end
with a different whimper.