Late to the party ...

I was late to the party.

All the ranch dip was gone.

I couldn't find a clean cup,

But the music was on.

All the couples had called cabs.

All the singles had paired.

There was—butter?—on the carpet,

And spliff-stains in the air.

I was late to the party.

All the greetings had been traded,

The “just one” drinkers wooed past their prime,

The corner bathroom barricaded.

All the big-armed talkers pushing,

All the close-face talkers inching,

Introverts (under their waistlines) clenching

And predators pressing, pinching.

Each had decided their purpose,

Everyone had gelled into place—

Joy-spreaders, sad-sacks, tomorrow-planners, looking-backs

—then me, with that fresh, clueless face.

I was late to the party.

I never skipped a grade

Never headed any team

And never a first-move made.

Always a little bit “where do I go?”

Often a bit, “Why am I here?”

But then I saw you falling,

            off the porch side,

                        from a dark stool—

Caught your limp spine,

            before the bush did.

                       “Hey! You're here...”