To Glide Past

Spent party favors lie collapsed
on flat surfaces sticky
from careless drinks, the
slowly souring smell of past
revelings lies flat on the air
like the musty flush when an
old hope chest is opened.
This gig is over.

The shrill resentments of missed
chances grow piercing as afternoon
overtakes a bright morning and night
is limned dimly but clearly enough:
destination certain if arrival time less so.

Better then to leave a trail sweet with
snatches of melody and knowing musings
and not stains acrid on the memory.