There is an anthem here.
Sung in the circular patterns of parties,
part praise part performance,
parked illegally to the side of my sour soul
out of sight.
The melody sugar.
The beat bread.
You can have a party with balloons and costumes.
You can have a party with music and liquor.
You can have a party with liquor and nothing.
You can have a party with people and nothing.
The nights are cold and the days are nothing but sky.
The singers are all sky and no cold.
They sing around leggings and slang.
They sing around themselves and light.
Light sees all but is deaf as hell.
The anthem needs no ears.
No meddling middlemen to point me the words,
which I have studied, graciously,
because the books were given to me.
What a blessing.
What a sweet rain
when my hometown lays dead in drought.
And what a pity
I can’t match pitch.
From the windowsill you can see the partygoers
in loops and lines and lovely lilting lives.
They harmonize well.