At The Party

Philosophy, that schoolbook for princes,
staggers down the steps
drunk on citation and celibacy.

Meanwhile Poetry,
preferred play-date of maidens,
sips the sighs of fresh Love in the corner,
pushing wine and dine on Reason.

Philosophy quaffs a stiff one
before looking for a victim, a student;
it insults Kindness, sloshes gin on Grace,
introduces Antithesis to Fun,
even stooping to tell The Truth:
You’re a fool! You’re a fool!

And you. You’re the worst of all!
Who, me? says Poetry, dropping a cigarette
on the floor, birds tumbling from sleeves.

A pretty blaze mauls the carpet.
Philosophy hacks on a bloom of skylarks
that form broken mirrors from ribboned wings.
Stop! I can’t see…can’t…breathe, it wheezes.

Who, me? cheeps Poetry.