birthday boy

'i always was an open door girl,'
i said, getting into the death seat of the stranger's car.

well it strikes me as the kind of thing i could have said.
david's doing wheelies round the Boulevard of Divulging All,
revved up with these damn stories
i was in no condition at the time(s)
to have any business remembering
now, should i even want to

but his buddies look at me expectantly
a ring of bright otter eyes over the wilting salad.

it's his 60th birthday.

this morning he fell weeping to the floor -
no-one will come!
they'll all find me boring!
but his implacable wise madam wife
(who'd usurped his address book
and invited its contents)
just said oh-ho. i see. uh-huh... alright.

i skate around the seething, snapping details
of my alleged sex life (really david? did i?)
- the flagrant name-dropping
- the raping & pillaging of secrets

but after our host, loud with joy, shouts
about the time he fucked the polite guest he is at pains
to repeatedly point out is gay to the rest of us on the back seat
of some jag or other,
i repeatedly try to remove the glowin' throbbin'
laser-shootin' glass of alcoholic champagne
from his cement grip re our possible slide
into a bumpy, bumpy ride. i try. i fail. oh christ.
we wobble inside to escape the mosquitoes' savagery,
at least.

in the corner his puzzled daughter droops
awaiting one of her three acceptable dinners
& christmas lights frolic in her hair.
her tamagotchi dreams of its perfect owner
as i raise another loaded glass
to you, on your birthday, mi loco amigo!
& he's as happy as a... well, i wish i could remember.