“Poetry is the supreme killjoy”

Poetry is the supreme killjoy

The awkward guest sitting in the corner

Observing others, the one who can’t get into it, who bores easily, thinks she’d rather be home

The one who’ll take a drink right from your hand and always bums smokes

The first one to dance and then end up crying

The one who steals kisses from boys and girls, the one who slurs her words and can’t walk straight, the one who’s spun

Who gets kicked out and comes back

Happy, more excited now

The last to leave when the party’s over

The first to arrive when the party’s over

The broken cup, the puddled floor, the vomit on the leather sofa, the cigarette burn on the tablecloth and on arms, the one-night stand, the hangover, the hickey, the regret, the new love, the morning-after pill, your three kids, the mortgaged apartment, the hustle, the bank debt, the used car, the stability, the confidence in growing older, the midlife crisis, the end of love, the chill old age, your burial.

Poetry is all the parties.