Cigarette Burns on the Futon at One AM in the Place Where You’d Have Sat If You’d have Come.

This was conceived after I experienced a cast party gone insane. I was only sixteen or seventeen at the time and was not prepared for the madness that ensued.

It’s surprisingly clean, this series of boxes

Housing between four and fourteen people at any given time �"

Well, as clean as a space cared for by twentysomething males can be.

Steve and Jackie are chain-smoking on different sofas;

He, a cat lounging lazily in a tree; she, an umbrella that fits in your purse.

Both yawning and slamming liquor down with force.

We’ve placed ourselves in the formal sitting area in anticipation of

Them

Returning from their voyage in the sea of legs, tits, arms, and asses that is the bar on Main Street.

“They’ll be back in a little bit”, says he.

“Define a ‘little bit’”, says I.

A snicker from the far end of the Futon supporting us:

She and I �" in two different worlds �" but watching the same electronic box of wires and sound.

Framed on either side by miscellaneous gadgets on shelves and an assortment of distractions from the TV Guide.

Party ball and Maxim in one corner; dusty plant and education in another.

Where the hell are they?

All this alcohol and they go out?

Why did they even pitch in?

Damn I’m tired. Me too. Me (yawn) too.

Bony Futon underneath me creaks and cops a feel as I stretch.

Austin Powers is shagging in front of us and we’re all so tired, we don’t care about how gross he is.

Maybe I should go home now. After all, I got the Daily Grind tomorrow.

But I always leave parties early…

S**t, they’re back in black �"

Blacked-out, that is.

Suddenly, Steve’s smoking isn’t noisy, but silent; the gulps a lullaby.

Who’s that a*****e over there who called me fat? What balls (or lack thereof).

Ape-boy in the corner salivating over the liquid as two unknown possible dick-heads

Salivate over me and the other girls in the room.

Too charming, too good-looking, both of them; not self-destructive enough for my taste.

Where’re are my keys? Who’s calling me? Oh, hey mom. Yeah, I’m comin’ home soon…Sorry I can’t hear…

Not everybody came so I’m leaving…Yeah…Okay…

Bye.

Sitting back down and surveying the scene.

Folding like a lawn chair inward and upon myself again.

(I wish you were here.)

Reviews

[Kira]

Thom, poems don't *need* to be compacted. If you lack the attention span to read something above ten lines, that's your problem, not the poet's.

I loved it.

[Thom]

For a poem this is huge! simplify