Life of the Party
A loud party, ten feet to your left,
through your wall. Stock-still cars
the driveway, spilling into the street.
The host has his guitar out, they
are singing, they all know the song,
even you’ve heard it. The floor
roils with bass, grabs your feet.
They’ve got a gong over there,
it bellows like a grandfather clock
at 2:00 AM, twice. A drum set
and a drummer from a band
and in all 14,400 square inches
of that place, which you know
because it’s the same as yours,
people. Sitting on the floor
and piled onto chairs and sofas
and leaning against the fridge
in the kitchen, on the edge
of the bed on top of the coats.
It is officially the best party
in the world, in the galaxy,
there has never been another
party during which the guests
loved the host more, or wanted
so much to exist together.
This is it, it is happening now,
this is the party that every party
dreams of becoming when it grows up,
you can live alone in an empty field
and even then you will hear the party,
its life charging on without you.