Dinner Party

When called, they’d leave their hors d’oeuvres,
puddles of martinis in their glasses,
remains of smoked oysters, small franks
in bourbon sauce simmering
in a silver chafing dish,
red skinned peanuts
in lead crystal bowls,
linen napkins left crumpled,
filled with olive pits and tasseled toothpicks,
and head into the dining room
to eat dinner served on the china
around the mahogany table with candlelight
and flowers from my mother’s garden,
leaving me in the quiet living room
with the dregs of the smoked cigarettes
which I’d pocket
like Templeton
and bring with matches to the bathroom
I shared with my brother,
placing my lips over
lipstick covered filters,
the smoke escaping
out the crack of open window.