How To Succeed At Parties

As I shuffle through these tight, once white

corridors the air choked with yellowed smoke

and stale sweat flaking the paper from the

walls, arms reach up at me from the floor;

A hand or two grabs at my belt; clotted

red creams of their eyes rolling back,

craning to look up at me, but overshooting

the mark and ending instead in a dark bliss

in the backs of heads. I brush them aside and continue

on, heading in deeper; the hallways are thick

with people: a push of arms and hips, warm

mutters of stolen conversation, repeated

from one to another-pirated and parroted simply

for the sake of background noise. I should have drunk

tonight. The clammy press of social excess

is far too much without alcohol's gentle caress.

I decided not to drink, my own mistake;

I'd fulfilled that cliché too many days

running; but the salty air and toppled books

proved too much, my healthy gesture served

only to fracture; when we should have been fractured together,

coupled and whole, we were distant, apart, I even

felt a certain loathing for you as I sat

on the bed, my shoes still on, taking in

your awkward, elbowy recline and feeling vaguely

jealous of your tried and tested reckless abandon.

At home I conclude there's no such thing as sober

success at social events, always aim

to be a part of that writhing fallen furniture,

your upholstery pale and blotched, stained and torn,

but nonetheless at one, at peace: unified.