A Dinner Party

P.T. Barnum
arranged his life
the way it should be:
true splendor,
gross extremes,
with nary a soiree
in sight.

Betcha he'd never
accept an invite
to a dinner party.

Once here: converse.
As in "talk" and not
"disagree."

In fact, conversation runs like
a mail route: too familiar
houses rimming too familiar
roads.

Normality heats the room
like Bergin-Belsen
in this simple tract house
the first floor choked with
live choking people above;
the basement laying odds
on who'd lip the biz end
of a shotgun below.

The below is me; I'll take the under
blunder
and plunder my way through
regrets look for regreats.

Genuine moments: a laugh,
a wince, the boil on your bottom
acting up, fueled lunacy,
going crosseyed like a lizard in the
noonday sun,
yes, indeed,
that is a life.