The Party

(a sonnet)
How odd to usher in with this menage’,
The coming break of nineteen-sixty-six.
These mid-town boho’s in their art collage,
And my black tux the sore thumb in their mix.
 
In swirls of Fact’ry lights and hard kick-drum,
Just past the Edies’ and the Andys’ gawk,
The wolf-skin girl shines like a temple sun,
Her dance? her paint? Perhaps it’s just the hawk!
 
The couch, my plate of food, and then she’s there,
In conversations, finishing my thoughts.
How odd she eats my shrimp without a care,
And then pulls back, aghast, like she’s been caught.
 
I smile and push the plate, begin to chat,
“It’s OK if you want to finish that”