The Party

“Come in come in,” a kiss, a hug – “have you lost weight?
You must meet Angel, oh and Rachel’s partner Brian”
(aside in hushed conspiratorial tones, for Rachel died last month)
and in I wade with good intention: “Sorry to hear about your loss,
were you together long?”
“Twenty years on and off, mostly off. A free spirit was Rachel.
She left me actually. The magic had gone, we hoped it might return.”
“No chance!” said Angel, dragging on a roll-up from the peeling bench
“I give ‘em three months and I’m off.”

Half familiar strangers loiter with vacant smiles
and piles of vol au vents on paper plates
and expectant looks towards a next door room
in order to avoid that ever awkward introduction.

“And she’s the one that used to be the catwalk model,”
which might explain the invisible barrier
across which no-one dares to tread despite her friendly smile
and charming kids and mundane talk of physios and other normal things.

I’m John as well! That’ll make things easy. Actually
they call me Bonkers John and I’ll tell you all about myself
for the next half hour provided that you stand and smile and prompt
and feel relieved as folks will think you’re quite the socialite –
Look! Someone wants to talk to you...
except that Bonkers John will talk to anyone.

And from this island sanctuary I leap to Bill
who looks kind and friendly and not too taxing
and finds it spooky that I’ve just read Hardy too
which means I’ll probably also like to hear of post cards
and canals and laying hedges. What are the chances
of us two meeting here of all places?

The night draws on and sounds of voices mingle
with the dim but friendly lights and when I’m happy
that my host and those I’ve met are so absorbed in feeble etiquette
they wouldn’t miss my paltry contribution, I slip the latch
and hope no-one will catch me in the silent act of cowardice.

John H Davies
16th June 2011