The mainstay of guests,
Their backs against chairs
That are backed against walls,
Readily seated and settled
Into tight knit sub communities
And discussion cells…
Thrashing out social failings
And political ineptitudes
Gleaned from broadsheets
And RT News updates,
Mumbling agreements
Or gentle dissents,
Some too ****** to participate
(should have “passed the kouchie
‘pon the left hand side”).
One spills red wine onto white cloth
And they all laugh longer than necessary
About the irony of it all
Even though there was no irony
In the situation to begin with.
There are a small handful of male guests
That I feel I could get along with.
I give way in the doorway
For the hostess to deliver nibbles.
There are a handful of female guests
That I think I’d like to ****
(the hostess included),
But none of this allays the reluctance
To step through the threshold.
The hostess exits the room
As I pin myself to the hallway wall,
“It could be you”, I think,
And try to relay this through a raised eyebrow smile
That goes unnoticed.
I attempt my break in
Just as the conversation turns to
The importance of contemporary art
In modern society
And the relevance of Jim Morrison’s poetry
In the cerebral world of words.
I search audibly for a conversation
Centred around Adele’s latest album release…
And I NEVER, on a good day, want to talk about THAT.
In for a penny, I take the step with a fuzzy indifference
And am drawn to a hand extending the offer of a spliff,
And to the ***** of empty wine glass on full bottle,
And a “will you, won’t you?” expression,
And I trip and fall over a synthetic fur rug
Lying, recumbent, too scared to take my eyes
Off the pendulum light bulb that hovers above me
And all I can think is that the hallway
Was a much safer place to be.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017