An old poem

Soiree

I lie in bed

staring at
bloated pillow,

imagining—

the impression
of your head
pressed in.

Filling in the rest
from memory.

Imagining us—
talking, joking, flirting;

Touching—
each other, with
stories, smiling, smelling

erotic stink
of the 400-count sheets.

Sandwich breath,
cigarette hair, maybe an
Eau de twelve hours ago.

A bedtime
cocktail
party—
dancesteps
of wit,
bubbly—
moods, and
perfect

soundtrack. Slowly,

The party draws
to an end I fall
asleep—

alone. Alone.