It must've been one hell of a party by Thomas Burson

It must've been one hell of a party

The napkin with the mango lipstick kiss
lay naked with promises on the hall floor.

The pearl earrings on the window sill
iridescent with the blush of morning sun. Blue
socks peek at me over the bookends.
Upheaval and uproar still leak into my
consciousness, I seek out the coffee pot,
empty another glass, try to make room
reclaim the kitchen. All the toothpaste and mouth
wash won't make my taste buds right.
Beer cans flattened, Johnny  Walker
dead on the door step. Every ashtray amid
hazardous waste spills. Oh, look at this, Jockey
shorts tossed over the blender in the corner
along with traces of stale chocolate cake.

As the last gurgles of water tumble through,
I hear a voice moan, “Can I have some too.”

I look at the living room. As the light stumbles
through the blinds, she looks back at me
smiles, a promise she is going to survive.
The AM/FM radio alarm picks this time to chime.
“God, what a sick joke,” she screams.
Slams down her fist makes sure it dies.

Sips coffee at the table, trash pushed aside.
Pats my hand tells me I must be "The Man,"
coffee first thing in the morning and I hadn’t
even tried to get her into bed.