The (Last) Party

Once more the party will end
and the empty bottles will hurl
themselves against the bottom of
the recycling bin,
instead of the bare bricks of the fireplace,

and we will say good-by
as if the darkness of the night
had burst forth from
our very own overburdened bowels.

The door will slam shut like the back cover of
an encyclopedia,
the car will run over another
dead-end road,
and the dawn will slice off another dream,
we hope, before the head starts banging.

What’s the matter? Didn’t you enjoy the party?
No, I’m not too drunk to drive.

And the night will trample all
over us like a tipsy dragon
looking for a place to pee.

Why did we stay so long?

No, I didn't yawn, it was only a burp
from the deeper folds of the belly,
probably mine,
small change from the rifled rasps of the throat.

Here it is, take it. That’s all I’ve got,
at this time of the night.
I’ve got nothing left except
a yearning to hurl myself
into a recycling bin. And not
with a bang but a warm thud
like a rinsed-out detergent container.