The Host Early Sunday Morning

The silence in the hours after the party has ended is my favorite time in this house
Steeped for years in conversations high
And low
In armchair psychology as the drinks are poured
As glasses of ice, assorted cheeses find their sweat
Among laughter and fevered wishes for more such encounters
Plans etched in hot breath and cracker spittle, vapors of champagne

Once those voices have settled and all are on that sad journey home on a night somehow darker than all others
I find peace and hope
It does not occur to me to sweep or wipe or alter the lighting to expose the antiseptic reality in which I actually live

The moment is perfect and why I throw parties to begin with
Basking in the glow of hours-dead vibrations, proud.