Marilyn L. Taylor
Note: I believe I’ve aged out of the basic message of this poem about going to parties, but it was a whole lot of fun to write. Thank God for Merriam-Webster’s Rhyming Dictionary.
At the Cocktail Party
I can’t ignore, I can’t explain
the way my retrogressive brain
can almost always ascertain
with little effort, zero strain,
the men with whom I’d stand to gain
what every grown-up would maintain
was one of those adult, humane
relationships that entertain
no possibility of pain,
no Here I Go Again refrain—
and wouldn’t nurture my insane
desire to go against the grain,
seeking out the perfect vein
in which to shoot some Novocain.
And yet I’m always heading for
those characters I should ignore—
the ones with habits I deplore:
their tendencies to hog the floor
intoning words like ”heretofore”
and dumping too much private lore
on those they’ve never met before,
like they’ve had kinky sex galore
but found it a terrific bore—
then whispering just how much more
a night with me might have in store.
Nevermore. Ah, nevermore.
Just watch me march: one two three four
bass-ackwards out the kitchen door.
© 2018 Marilyn L. Taylor
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