After a good time
and a lot of talk —
people on the porch,
food on the table,
friends leaning against
the spatter painted walls
of an artist’s room —

it’s easy to go home
and drift on
into the solo passage
of a song heard in my own living room
and fall into
half-sleep with my eyes open,
recalling other nights like this

that are far in the past,
far enough away to be out of reach
permanently,

and startle myself into realizing
that even the memory of tonight
seems part of that past,

and I realize that I was never part of it
while I was there,
just twenty minutes ago,

that it happened around me
and there wasn’t much to it
that involved me…