came to a party I had in the old family manse
(that's a lie, it was a wonky 3-bedroom, cut-up &
added-on-to rambler in Renton) and they stripped,
ran through the house shrieking and whooping
before plunking their bare asses down in the hot tub.
(Again, a manufactured detail. Hot tub? In the house
where I grew up?! Bathtub, more like it.) I have absolutely
no idea what predisposed me to dream of Oscar Wilde.
But I was concerned when the rest of the guests arrived
and I hadn't yet sliced the log-sized salami and coppacola.
Hmm. Perhaps symbolic. You think?
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