Friday at 8

 

Chit-chat-chatter crosses candle-sticked, cloth-covered table.

The bored smiles below dead-eyes roam clock-wise

towards the ticking antique in the corner of the room.

The guttering flames dispel no gloom,

tasteful recessed spots – so last year -

shine down on every wisely turned deaf-ear.

Attention wavers, attention waivers

are brandished in the form of subject change

and these same leap within a titan's range.

What was Papa driving off the road in Burgos? Say-at?

Fiat, or Hispano Suiza? Gazes turn to Tom's Louisa:

'A conjuring trick with bones!'

her suffering partner groans.

Speak not of religion, politics and love,

though this unholy trinity is joined, unwanted,

by property and equity and debt in perpetuity.

 

Above the candles, above his head, the inherited, increasing crown:

while over undiscovered lovers with arrangements undisclosed,

bored to omniscience, the starved look down

at other carefully chosen guests, whose case rests

in one moment's silence, before infinite jests

and “did you knows?” rush to fill the dreaded void

and the hostess looks at Tom, annoyed,

he - buoyed, by Pinot Grigot, and powdered brio -

gives account of Castel del Rio,

or was it Cannes? Dreadful man, how on earth Louisa can

stand him around or even a round at the after hours club

where both will go to scrape and rub

the nearness of others, that private hell,

of a dinner party that went so well.

 

Jake and Rupert strangely placed, perhaps they should be faced,

not by each others' side, an insult to their pride, Tom for instance

is far from Louise, Rupert thinks some prejudice is traced,

in putting only them together, and it is not chance,

that in some bizarre and ritual dance

they know they are not in the gang.

Hang their mores, their narrow minds,

their showing we are not quite their kind,

by not separating us. The boys will bicker on the bus,

through Notting Hill as far as Hampstead,

and all the polite talking will be wasted.

 

Mine host, insubstantial as a ghost, fills glasses,

passes a hand through thinning hair,

fixes the ceiling with a stare,

sees the hostess, lower lip slack,

thank God for the percodan for her back

when we were seventeen, I love you still, Irene, Irene.

Words from long forgotten songs,

George stifles a yawn, prolongs

the moment between, memory and mentioning

the after-dinner drink, do not give them time to think,

the world is spinning, spinning, it makes you dizzy

to think about the centripetal force that must apply

though we hold on only by our fingers, by

our fingernails.            

♀♂

Upward, ever upward,

sparks fly: the centre

will not matter.

 

Ring-a-ring a rosebud,

George remembers that

and what it means

with distant, darkened pleasure.

♀♂

The candles snuffed, the snifters quaffed,

go then gently after 'goodnight!'

And shut the door, shut the door on them

and your shared dreams

from which you woke to find yourself giving parties

for people like your parents.