People excluded from the party,
stand outside in the rain.
Tears mix with precipitation,
create salt puddles beneath their eyes.
A band plays jazz so smooth
it’s creamy peanut butter.
The people would’ve left,
opened a can of chicken and stars,
stared into soup like it was outer space.
They’d read novels before sleeping,
dream of fireworks stabbing the night.
Yet there was a chance they’d get in.
Lights would dazzle them,
beautiful lovers hold their hands.
Evening would become a detective
who searched for a good time,
finding it lying inside the door.
Everyone would pick it up,
the moon spinning above them
as if it could never go down.
Donald Illich has published poetry in Poet Lore, Map Literary, Fourteen Hills, and other publications. His book, Chance Bodies, was recently published in 2018 by The Word Works. He lives in Maryland.
Artwork: Christian Schloe, Night with a View