Is it possible to gracefully lock
a flimsy bathroom door...

At the    party, you smiled as you cocooned  yourself
in confetti—as  you    cocooned yourself in
the corners  of his  smiling mouth.

It’s  as if  the caterpillar of    white gauze
under your  long sleeve
was a    bad dream.  But its procession feels

so stiff-legged, so marched
when your hands hover over—
its crusty like a hard, worn metaphor

sticking to filemot                  lines between the   
sterile and skin. Some-
where  along the    star parade, they get ripped off,

and there’s no
pause—no declaration  of a wardrobe malfunction. 
The party continues as  soft plastic 

falls on your tired teeth—catches in    the heat-
pressed    fuzz/static of the    strands along
your sweaty scalp. So, you ex-

cuse yourself,
careful not to ruin formation. Is it ever as   
graceful as it   

is in the TV shows? Is it as gleaming
as jelly when you crash into
every plaster   

side along a swirling  hallway with a 
thundering mus-
ical thud; your theme song playing

over what’s hip? Maybe it’s superficial;    synthetic 
like the bright fibers of your sweater catching
each micro-

scopic  splinter as you     
slide down a door that smells of soap scum,
and hangovers;  of hot-box  sessions,

and strangers, and cold sunrises
before clocking in. At the party, you’ve   
cocooned yourself, and con-

fetti isn’t young, or old, nor a  script
to skim over. It’s the shock value
of slow-dancing

... with a razorblade burning
a hole in your back pocket (?)