Everything Bitter, Everything Late

How am I going to sleep

When across the street

The Wilsons are throwing a party

Vanessa Wilson called me this afternoon

To tell me all about the preparations

Only remembering to invite me

Just as the call was about to end

I told her about my headaches

And how I need to avoid

Too much social interaction

For the time being

She tried to catch her relief

The way one might stifle a yawn

But you can always tell

What was supposed to be there

Leaning against the stove

I notice a nickel-sized stain

On my otherwise undistinguished

Countertops

The loaded laughter from across the street

Makes its way through my poor insulation

And reminds me

That I’m neither for or of this world

The world being one or two cocktails

New dresses from a department store

A hairstyle maintained from Friday

Into Saturday evening

Everything bitter

Everything late

The itch at the back of my neck

Won’t go away

And I wonder what kind of illness

I might have

I refilled my glass for the first time

Just as the guests began arriving

At the Wilson house

They’re parked up and down the street

And a few are outside smoking

Speaking loudly but not angrily

Which is a fine trick

Only inebriated people

Know how to pull off

Inside my bathroom

The water runs
Because I couldn’t be bothered

To turn anything off today

There is no religious reason for this

Just a lack of interest

In bringing anything

To a halt

Let the water run

Let the lights buzz

Let the currents run through

My empty, empty house

Let it feel alive

In whatever way it can

Laying on my bed

I tell myself a story

About a little girl

Who grew up

To be rich and popular

With so many friends

It was impossible to see them all

And so she died of sadness

Knowing that it was possible

To only truly love

A few people at a time

Maybe just one

And if you chose the wrong one…

The Wilson house catches on fire

Sometime around three am

The party had just ended

Less than an hour before

And so Vanessa and her husband

Were still awake

And able to flee their residence

Before it was reduced to ashes

Not all fires consume

But this one did

And it left nothing

Worth rebuilding

I was asleep

And so deeply

That not even the whining sirens

Of the fire engine

Could rouse me

Upon waking the next day

I found that I now had a view

Of Porter Street

That had never been there before

And this tickled me

Before I realized

Why it would be so

Shortly after finding yourself envious

You will occasionally find yourself

Pitying those who you envied

I pitied the Wilsons

And their grand and garish home

That would never be so again

That night, Vanessa Wilson slept on my couch
And I had to do all my drinking

Alone in my room

With the door locked

As if she would try to get in

Were I to let her

But Vanessa just lay there on the couch

Her husband downstairs in my basement

Finding himself aroused

At the thought of a fire

That couldn’t be put out

While his wife tried sleeping

In a room meant for living

Telling herself a story

Not even she could believe