1159. TOO LATE FOR THE PARTY

TOO LATE FOR THE PARTY

I'd come too late for the party : the tables were down,

the cups had already been taken away. A few dead-drunk

people were set around like puppets props from the

Living Theater : twisted limbs, frost on their faces,

and all that shouldered harmony of the dense. The

pretty waitress from the kitchen sauntered by. Picking

up scraps, she sparred with the busboy; as if throwing

darts and flirting with results. Only the lighting saved

the day. I'd asked if I needed a reservation. 'Now?',

she said, 'we're going away.' Hallelujah to that.

-

Along the stairway, the crescent moon had bent strips

of yellow light; they rolled across the steps lending

a color to the night; not much, but a color nonetheless.

Had I been a smoker, this would have been the place.

Instead, I took my rest - leaning on the wall I watched

the three men from the Carson Warehouse load their

crates : marked from China, big, strapped wood,

probably filled with marbles or nothing really good.

Cheap wares and Chinese flares - all that stuff of

dollar stores and emporium fairs. Junk, probably

like the boat they also named.

-

I realized I was late for the party. I realized what

I'd thought, as well. If I had a Chinese junk, I'd

sail the harbor solo, never setting foot on land

again. Impractical as that would be, from all this

patter I'd be free. It took a moment more to sink

in - nothing mattered anymore, and I was

drowning anyway. Too late for the party,

and too late for the festive tray.