The lights are dimmed. A glide to the divan.
Strangers are dearer, the pillows fought over, and the clever not knowing who'll clean.
Plunked in smoke, tumbler ashtrays, and gastric breath
Someone swallows, some eyes talk, a hand plays with itself,
Leg on another's leg, cheeks and hips no longer afraid, and punctuation's drink.
Scotch 'n' cigar lifted, the gifted of the gab spit on those who are not
And the silent are more drunken, yet taken care of, like deaf-mutes in warm bunny suits.
Sooner or later, cold shoes are filled. The host slouches, and (quite loud) he hears his slippers hiss.
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