Party Animal

by C.B. Anderson

The silences were awkward, but the conversations
were even worse. Much better had the empty spaces
been left unfilled; instead -- as if the fate of nations
depended on the spoken word -- not one oasis

remained where weary ears might find relief. The warm hors
d'oeuvres were distributed by women dressed like penguins,
and most of them, as later on was learned, were former
casino dancers trimmed with far too many sequins

or wanton ladies of the night. The host, Italian
by most accounts, would pinch each bottom as he passed, and
foreseeing his approach I snared a lamb medallion
and stood aside, already watching when he fastened

himself -- much like an albatross that of a sudden
has lost the gift of flight -- atop a helpless server
too shocked or too exhausted to resist. The blood in
my veins began to pulse to the beat of the fervor

enacted right in front of me upon the table
where all the dips and cheeses had been placed. His elbow,
with which he braced against the yaw his now quite able
slim vessel torqued, was in a wedge of Asiago;

her head was cushioned by some fresh baguettes and wobbled
as madly as a globe beset with superpowers
competing for supremacy. I stared, and gobbled
some prawns until a woman hidden in the flowers

emerged remarking how the tone had changed and, really,
to keep in step a few more drinks were what she needed.
Before too long our talk became more touchy-feely,
so I suggested we depart, and she acceded.

Inside the cab, I asked about what wasn't noted
on the invitation. A diplomat, she told me,
an international relations expert, voted
Best in Class -- throws great parties... now shut up and hold me.

© 2007 by C.B. Anderson



About the Author

C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Many scores of his poems have appeared in dozens of print and electronic journals. His e-chapbook, A Walk in the Dark, can be read on the website of The New Formalist Press.


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