10 Minutes

10 minutes at the kissing party-

it's a one cigarette walk down to North Frankfurt Place,
where men and women dress the same.
an invitation to a kissing party,
a lips-'n-hips dance to expel these demons.
entering the courtyard snowcovered, silent
and straight to the door
a buzz, and a pause, and a click, and a query
a non-gendered voice prods for authentication
"the password is moot in a time of spies"

the next words were garbled, but electric unlatched
soon to the top of the stairs to the door,
creaked open for smoke to seep out.
the booties had bounced without me,
some in sofas, some in stirrups, some in hands warming winter.
all moving by their own inclinations.

Shirley placed a peck on my cheek and i laughed,
then paused and croaked hoarsely the familiar "been a while"
her smile in return is morphine and fog,
a sinking ease, unfiltered.
i reach for her hand, but suddenly jerked
led to the kitchen by the back of my shirt
to an icebox teeming libatiously, patiently to unburden itself
and us in the process.

the cracked wood plank flooring sticks to my feet,
the towels have soaked all they can, but i manage
to sway and to look and to listen.
the conversations are gaudy and violent. Sane.
fashionably late again... like the cops.

before they buzzed, i enjoyed one last glimpse
of erroneous phoneyness, holiness, horniness
"beggars don't speak of Chomsky or Haydn"
he slurred to the girl with the perky round breasts.

nor do i in bad company.

a loud rap on the door.

then the assholes barged in and continued the war.