In the secular night you wander around
alone in your house. It's two thirty.
Everyone has deserted you,
or this is your story;
you remember it from being sixteen,
when the others were out somewhere,
having a good time,
or so you suspected,
and you had to baby-sit.
You took a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream
and filled up the glass with grape juice
and ginger ale, and put on Glenn Miller
with his big-band sound,
and lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up the chimney,
and cried for a while because you were not dancing,
and then danced, by yourself,
your mouth circled with purple.