Untitled #7

The spring-loaded balloons and confetti
Gracefully descend from up above
Some spin in circles around their lackluster appeal
While the liberal musicians fine-tune their guitars
And home lives via satellite

The Change begins now
I roll my eyes in the same way
Swallow and gulp and cough
Hide in space
Sitting up straight
Legs elegantly crossed, in the front row

By the time the cheers of dashed victory
Become muffled from the other grinning noises,
And thick round imprints of lipstick
And tuxedo sweat form on the edges of champagne glasses,
I am already lost in the upstairs hallway

The prodigal son finds me first,
Before all the other followers have a chance to
His smooth palms and gnawed fingernails soon pushing me forward
Into the closest room with a bronze lock on the door

I struggle and scratch for appropriate intervals of time
Before getting lost in his furious whispers
"This was bound to happen," he moans
"Just be glad it's me"

By the next morning I would completely forget what it was like
To be ecstatic
Teetering on the swivel between childhood
And lunacy

- C.W.