One Poem

POEM BY KAFKA

I have recovered informal pleasure
Struck as I was
By high-toned fantasy
A lumpish way of saying
The party foods were small and savory
The impeccable servants
Romping dogs
Constant martinis being suzzled
While I admired my escape
In my teens I was a terrible flower
To circulate without an excuse
Obtruding strangers
And even in absence that thin time
Of day where a party fits in
Dogs and children demanding
A little something after
The question is how to give up
The frazzling of oneself
Escape our thirties and forties
On a silver tray
In a closet lined with lace
The silent butler crosses a hall
Toward its own disposal
Less needed than a cigarette
Even in love I used to wonder
If they could act a scene without
To me the most notable thing
About the 20th century
A dip that started as a groundswell
And became a spread
Then toothpicks came into their own
You wore something off the shoulder
Pale and blue
Life slid like a meatball down the front
Of your décolletage
Leaving a hideous indelible stain
I have a dustpan and a whisk for a broom
I have a mandoline
It is hardly essential
I have always needed more than I have
You may be more provident
The table was chock full of ready-mades
We had only to dunk
And various condiments appeal to you
Friends would never admit
The greater the crush the less they will be noticed
People don’t go to the dip
It has to come to them
Get yourself a good walnut to crack
A small drawer stuffed with scraps
Spare some knives to avoid a death
Of the host in the instant of a herd
Remember the written word?
It has not died
Tell the people when the party will be over
I suppose we could feed them caviar
As this is probably a sad party
And everything eaten by the fingers
Down to the bone
In what used to be ashtrays
Your best-bought friends
Scatter the napkins which will be stuffed
Absurdly into pockets
In some bright color
I allow about three per person
And guests never seem to be without
Your assortment could surely feature
Bread and butter
A universal dunk
Who has time to be this desirable
Wanted and gross
You can buy a party
You can go out
Gussied up and ornamented
Take it on the bun
Taste around until you find
Well my world is not like that
My children have been placated
With sandwiches which seemed festive
And without much damage
How many hands can you count on
Overcrowded as teenagers
Crammed in the corner and dripping
Water down your back
Your tulips thoroughly trampled
You are not the only one
Formally determined
By a written invitation
A fear of frying
Bird and beast
Crimson menace
No party of mine

∩

Stella Corso wrote the poetry collections Green Knife and Tantrum along with several chapbooks including the people were lovely, but I was not. She currently teaches in the Jack Kerouac School at Naropa University and co-hosts The Ritter podcast.