the holiday dinner party

it's the time

of year

when you're forced to be with people.

you've run out of

excuses

for not going. so you go.

some people you like,

some you don't like,

and the feeling

is mutual.

but you attend anyway and put

on your

happy face,

your pleasant smile,

and demeanor.

you carry

in your toll house cookies

nestled in a tin.

you make small talk, you

shake hands,

you hug,

some hug you back.

you avoid the mistletoe

as you make

vague plans

to get together again,

call me you say,

or they say to you.

let's not let another year

pass.

and then you realize

that you've only been there

for fifteen minutes.

you wipe your brow,

you can feel

the sweat beneath your

Christmas

sweater, running down 

your back.

why is your eye twitching

you think,

as your head

swivels around searching

for an exit.