The Party

I dreamt you went to a party,
full of the most fascinating folks,
in a house with four floors and six fireplaces,
each floor at an angle strange to the rest,
each fireplace with flames of foreign woods,
a different color coming from each.
So many costumes, from simple to ornate,
in patterns and colors to make the nebulae blush,
and people young and old,
who were all the friends you’d never met,
singing and talking and dancing and thinking
the most interesting thoughts.
There were near misses with precious objects d’art,
and rowdy tomfoolery as the walls were climbed,
(the paintings dodged)
and the brooms and brushes
clucked the hours away
getting every last footprint.
And after a time you sat alone in the round kitchen,
in the center of this most extraordinary house,
amid the remnants of the feast,
and untouched treats to come,
while you soaked in the vibrations,
thrumming through the house
like the strings of His guitar.
You were content and warm,
and people came and went past you,
leaving you unseen in your bubble,
until at last a most extraordinary girl
stopped and asked you,
with naughty daring in her one eye,
the other a great green jewel,
if you thought it was time to play a new game,
where the story began, and went from person
to person to person, with each adding a new line,
needing approval from all present to be accepted,
or face the most terrible tickling.
And you knew it was time to leave your bubble,
and join with the party again,
and so you did – and the story was full of all the best
from the imaginations of all these friends
you’d never met,
and it spread throughout the house
into every nook and cranny,
and out onto the porch where the Oak Street Boys,
a little the whimsical for drink,
were taking turns running out into the rain
to ask rainbows to dance…

and I awoke,
and I hated you
for getting your invitation,
while mine was lost in the mail.


listening to: silence where there should be a party
mood: melancholy


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