Maybe

Maybe I'll just go to the party,
stand around alone in the corner
in a red dress
while everyone talks pink to each other,
politics and weathertown,
anarchists getting stoned
and drinking bourbon straight from the bottle.
Predicable.
And all I'll have to say in response is,
yea, yea, you're so right,
while I'm rolling my brain's eye
in the back of my head.

And maybe I'll just go hang out
with the butterflies in the basement
and they'll have intriguing things to say
about the subways they accidentally
got stuck on
and the sax they heard play on the corner
that sounded better than
a choir in a cathedral
or the people they met in French cafes
that wept over their ex boyfriends or
the healthcare they couldn't afford.

Or Maybe I'll stay all night,
stay after everyone's gone to bed
and dance with the monsters
in their kitchen cabinets,
talk sex with the ghosts
under their kitchen table,
and play Russian roulette
with the tea cups
until the sun rises.