smoky party

Ten aliens inhabited my place,
their shoes on clean upholstery, their mood
a forced frivolity, their lack of grace
astonishing, and as for attitude,
they pushed determined immaturity,
with music overloud and humor drowned:
a desperate fumble for festivity
while chaos-crusted gossip passed around.

And as the dining room collected smoke,
and drinks were spilled and music pushed to boom,
and someone made another careless joke
at anyone’s expense, I watched that room
of aging manic morons masking pain,
reminded why I hate to entertain.