Itís a college party, 10 p.m.
Iím the one out back, with my purse
under my arm, fidgeting with curls,
while the guys of the house, shouting,
flip quarters on the old wooden table.
I give a bewildered, squeamish look
at their eager mention of beer bong.
Iím the one apart from conversation,
warming a sticky white sugar puff
in the smoking embers with one hand
and text messaging with the other—
the puff blackening under blue-tinged light,
but I like the burnt flakes, the inner cream.
I would have you sooner if I could,
reads the box screen in my palm.
I would go anywhere, anywhere,
if he were there, would have me.
I am only here to try to forget
the suffocating soundlessness
of roommates gone for days.
I alone notice the boy-like man
who said he wouldnít play for us,
but, when nobody seems to look,
moans a few lines of hushed song,
strums a few strings, eyes closed.
I canít tell what his song means;
the rumbling chatter erases him.
When he walks off into the bushes
thinking we donít care to hear,
Iíve lost the voice to call, Stay.
fiction poetry "fact" photography