My friends are having a party, nimble bodies made clumsy, leaning
for inebriated support upon each other,
the odd one failing and falling upon the ground like a giggling dying fish.

That grass from a windows courtesy is a rioting mirror of the Roman inside, spouting anarchist
hyperbole at the horizon, that chaos will prevail,
And perhaps the tired cop may come
and they will get that drunken epiphany tonight, given time.
I think they just might, tonight.

I am a spy at night, deeply under cover;
Smiling
I am near the end now
exposing my love
Of watching