i don't want to go home

i take the broom

out

and begin to sweep up the broken

glass.

the bottle slipped

so easily

off the tray

as i carried it to the table.

two long stem

glasses fell too.

the room

smells like

wine, as the rug soaks it up.

it reminds me

of the bars

i used to hang out at,

when younger, when my sowing 

my oats.

i collect the broken

glass and get out the wet vacuum,

all i need is

some cigarette smoke in the air,

and you

in your little black dress,

to set the scene,

and Southside Johnny

singing,

that he doesn't want to go home.