Party Time is Over

It’s Christmas! Just don’t indulge too much and make yourself ill.

Party Time is Over

Nostrils burning,
eyes watering,
saline on your cheeks
to your chin,
making its way through
coarse brown, flecked with blonde, beard.

You look down
and wash
last night’s party
from around the sink.
Golden, chunky,
reminding you
of the night bus home.

Pizza crust,
in tiny pieces,
dragging you back
to the awkward
lambasting of a stranger
who hovered over the
buffet for too long.

You smell the rum,
mixing with liquid soap
venturing towards the plug hole,
and wretch again,
only bile left.


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