The rooms are drawn dustless, bowls of nuts and ashtrays arranged like museum pieces, sitting cool, ankles crossed until headlights throw shadows of branches over the table.
Through screen door faces strike, alight, catching-up catches fire, conversation blazes then smolders healthy, pauses filled in by worn tones and steady crackle of a fashionable vintage.
The lanes are greased and we're coasting smooth in an evening colony, smiles sphere the proceedings of collecting affirmations and passing plates of savories.
Ferments turn chuckles into brays and the lithe are seen to skip and hang on sweatered shoulders, some have peeled off the perimeter to cradle bottles and study lamp shine.
Susan complains of plastic humidity evaporating from jowls, swimming belly swell, neck around the room, patterns throw up subterfuge in the color of cream and air.
John Chung offers spiced breath with politics, his neighbors intercept syllables but can only grin giddy teeth, the beat will save the moment from being widowed from the interchange.
Phones converse like firefly crickets and turn the porch to shrine, the invisible night into a dark grid where traveling parties flicker.
Chairs invite rovers to unroll scrolls amidst windless chime bottles, the living room is kept afloat by stories, the kitchen stretches like a cat but breaks retracting into silent cud-chewing.
The silver ball bounces bringing peals until reaching a cluster of automatic philosophers, one
who pockets it to specimen and register with the taxonomists.
Couples trade tired glances while the desperate impassioned make a final push to turn the night into a memory, framed photos shrouded by empties.
In the end the cars prove impatient, the center cannot hold, the rooms regain their corners, the air sloshes lazy and then smooths until the pasty morning.
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