The cluster of ice in my glass
looks like a milky fist.
I shake my cup and ask
about the weather.
He says, 'Hasn't rained in
one thousand or so years.'
I say how that's unfortunate;
he says how **** happens.
This party transitions into
something out of an art-house film;
the Cali-tens are dancing to some
80's song you would vaguely recognize.
They bump into one another
like bees in an electric hive.
A Russian drinking a Russian
asks about drugs.
I say into my drink that I
don't have that many friends.
Looking for a bathroom,
I am bumped by hips and lips
into the former eggshell/cigarette stain wall,
where I find my partial reflection
looking back at me in that familiar
transparent parent way.
I find myself apologizing.