[after a birthday party]
the crowd has ended,
the party has left
you stoop, bent in half
at the waist like the creased
napkins you lift
from the dusty linoleum
floor that falls through fingers
like seaside sun
before. the children
have dropped their broken
forks amid cake crumbs scattered
in candy wrappers in
the same swirling patterns of
oak leaves laid to rest
in the ground
and you brush bits into
your outstretched palms, alms
for the poor
adults who only eat the
sitting-in-the-fridge-for-a-week cake.
for a moment,
you sit, legs weary, on a child’s stool
(and you wonder
when you last went to
a birthday party)
watching deflated balloons
past their prime
lay on the floor because you
cannot bother to throw them into
the garbage can in the corner. it feels too far
so they droop,
lifelessly, losing air
with every breath
taking space that someone never notices
(and you realize the fan is on
and you wish you had
said yes to—)
until they shrivel, as
hollow as the empty room.
