Kitchen Tableful of Spirits

One body in the boxroom at a house party
with a rum and coke and the bass from
the living room. Another body, bottle of Becks
and a plate of crisps and homemade houmous,
the kind either everybody or nobody has to eat,

enough raw garlic to fell an abstainer. A third,
virgin margarita lovingly made. A fourth, proper
margarita concocted slapdash. A fifth, getting
difficult for everyone to fit on the single bed,
a sixth, no it’s fine I’ll perch on the windowsill

– no, sit under my legs – no, it’s fine. Minus one
on a mission for a top up from the kitchen tableful
of spirits and more Doritos, could you do a wee for me
while you’re up, plus two plus two plus four and
the missing one. Now everybody who knows how

to find the heart of the party is in it and the doors
won’t open. Always the most unprepossessing room
– only bores will tell you the fun happens in the kitchen.
In the locked boxroom the bodies start to split and multiply,
doppelgangering onto each others’ laps and up over

the furniture. The bodies are practised at keeping
the volume down so they aren’t discovered, but
one of everyone manages to talk to one of everyone
at least once. It’s too warm and too crowded. It’s perfect,
every body the perfect level of pissed, just perfect.

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