A Garden Party, in Early July

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It is my birthday
Quiet, empty, and soulless
Like me, or the world
The difference does not matter

This is a day that could be
Any other day
But there is no flaw in that
Simply the way the path has turned
A lonely, dusty road

It is lined with trees
That in the winter
Hang crisp with snow
And in the autumn
That approaches slowly
There is a flurry of foliage
A blizzard about my car
Blinds me
Makes it dangerous to drive

I am driving
Out to the countryside
To an ivy-covered house
No longer a home
Just a place where people live

I am the guest of honor
And the party is underway
I am offered a flute of champagne
As I step unto the patio
A quartet plays Vivaldi
And chatter drifts through the air

Children play croquet in the grass
Ribbons in the hair
Caps on the head
The clothing is muted
As we are not the flowers
Or the greenery
We are the High Society
And are lifted by our airs

Tonight there will be a murder
And I will be a suspect
Or a victim
There will be a motive
It may be petty
There will be opportunity
For today is my birthdayAnd I have invited Death to the party.

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