The Glass Ball
Across the room, the young man,
son of our host, smokes and hums,
rocking in a chair to the slow
rise and fall of acoustic guitar,
his long hair pulled away from a face
both soft and strong. Almost man,
almost boy, he seems to balance there
to something we can’t see, a
nd from his mouth rise perfect rings,
one after another, through the open window.
We guests watch, talk quietly,
our glasses still half-full of champagne.
This is the moment before someone
rises to take a dish to the sink,
before the first moves to say goodnight.
It’s the moment you would like to keep
safe in a glass ball—the contented
faces blurred by sleep—to shake
and watch the silver bits of confetti
as they glitter dizzyingly down
published in Limp Wrist