My finger jiggles
as I press the door bell,
my arms full of time-goblins
like homemade apple pie
and more cookies than ever necessary.
They answer the door
drinking red wine, eating celery
wearing no hint of velvet—
unlike me—
and I realize quite quickly
that people don’t ring the doorbell at these kinds of things.
Nor, do they seem, to eat cookies.

My smile is too bright, too eager
for such dim lighting and cool piano–
the kind of music I cannot sing along to
which I was fully prepared to do.
I had researched all
the popular party songs
my time spent baking also spent
studying the rhythmic arch of
a good Beyonce riff—
and I realize quite quickly
that people don’t riff at these kinds of things.
Nor, do they seem, to eat cookies.

I drink too much sparkling cider
a low calorie kind I didn’t know about
and pretend that celery is
yes, preferable to pie
when I know, biologically, it isn’t.
I have to go pee
like a normal person—
I thought—
so I ask the closest rd wine drinker
where the water closet might be
for me to relieve my burning vessel
but: it turns out
that people don’t vocalize bladder needs at these kinds of things.
Nor, do they seem, to eat cookies.

I sit by myself on a couch made of
silk
and I stroke the velvet lining of
My too-long skirt—
I gaze at the politely
nodding celery-nibbling
non-velvet clad
red wine drinkers
and I find
that these people don’t know how to party
at all.
Nor do they eat cookies.

So I grab the pie with one hand
shovel cookies into my purse.
I snag the single bottle
of IPA left
from someone who had
Not known the rules either.

I leave the piano
and the vegetables
and politeness

in search
of a different kind of party.


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my experience.

2 Comments on “I Realize

  1. Btw, I just did a rendition of this poem on my blog if you’re interested in taking a look see. Thanks for the inspiration.

    Like

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