the party took a turn for the worse

the party took a turn for the worse

when the girls stopped talking

started cleaning the kitchen,

some of them crying

alone in different corners

then all together at the table

then alone again, each one

in the passenger seat

of a boyfriend's car.

out in the backyard:

gussied up girls

stood in soft grass

as boys sat on 

plastic buckets.

liquor stacked next

to the lawnmower,

crossed arms

unsure steps.

boys looked them up and down

then back up again with neither

an approving smile nor a

disapproving smirk.

the moon seemed a spotlight

shining its beam on a spot

where our swingset used to be

back when i was little

back when i hid in the bushes

back when i spied on parents

back when the porch hid

old tires and mosquitoes,

girls stood upstairs

at sliding glass doors

the moon seemed a coin

enough to buy a movie

or a ride to the beach.

boys hoping to fuck had no luck

so only traded apologies, not fluids.

everyone saying 'sorry'

between sniffles and

silent looks out windows,

driver waiting in his car

with his ten class rings.

no matter how much you have

there is always one drop left

either your own bottle

or somebody else's.

the backyard was deserted

when i went outside,

i saw the moon blink

it was then i knew it was not a spotlight

it was then i knew it was not a coin

it was then i knew it was an eye.

Chris Bullock

Born on Long Island, living in Denver.  Autoharp player, MS-DOS music conductor, found-object assembler, film photographer.  Poetry has a nasty way of letting you know, by consecutive failures, that you are horrible at almost everything (except poetry). Autoharp with MS-DOS & poetry: http://tallcity.bandcamp.com