Its dead legs toward midnight
As conversation among strangers
Dies an even slower death
Kebabs burned on the Webber
Long since politely picked over
Salads fester in decorative bowls
While dessert remnants attract ants
Beer and wine empties rack up
In a kitchen corner as if asking
For something hard and heavy
To be thrown their way
Faces stunned by awkward silences
Search for something to say
With stars pensive overhead
Like the eyes of a bored audience
Please God let something happen
Maybe the BBQ could explode
And send the jock on the balcony
Screaming down in flames
To the unforgiving carpark below
Or perhaps the high maintenance
Trophy wife could choke
On a chicken bone
Ending her vacuous life with
Ever smaller gasps for air
While the ambulance crew
Drive in circles in search
Of this sepulchral address
No, I think the host, having devised
This tortuous event should provide
The guests with suitable entertainment
He should disappear for a moment
Then emerge in a maroon dressing gown
Which he dramatically whips open
Announces his desire to be a woman
And with a carving knife severs his penis
In front of all and sundry
Then, at least, we can leave
Slightly drunk and bemused
While he bleeds out
No doubt, we will still feel hungry
© shaun patrick green 2013
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