The Latecomers

The party is winding down.
A few guests remain, talking
or having a smoke by
the back windows. It has begun
to rain, a low gray drizzle. Inside,
the glasses are spotted with
fingerprints. The fan
trails blue streamers, nods
in its plastic cage. Halfeaten
crudités wilt between
crumpled napkins.
The latecomers enter through
the open door, wander quite
unnoticed to the bar, where
they help themselves to a couple of
drinks and maybe the last
of the cashews. They talk
in hushed tones about
the latest suicide, the silt
in the drinking water, the dogs
twitching in their sleep.
Drinks in hand, they walk
past the knot of smokers,
out onto the back porch. The rain
has stopped. The pool holds
its blue color in the evening
light, holds a single, translucent body
six feet above the ground.
– Taylor Altman

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Filed under Poetry, Vol 1 Issue 1

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