I don’t like parties Usually, But I’m hosting one For all my troubles Of late. I’ll serve dark Shiraz and A plaintive Bach air On a tiny violin play; Drape streamers of ebony. The venue: a threadbare couch. The food: stale salted crackers Crumbling in our fingers, A pungent gorgonzola Ripe with decay. Of what will we talk? How dreadful; It’s terrible; Just awful; Down, down we’ll spiral. It’s starting soon, My pity party - Will you come?
Photo by Alexa Portoraro.
