Some aliens inhabited her place,
their shoes on new upholstery, their mood
a forced frivolity, their lack of grace
astonishing, and as for attitude,
they wore determined immaturity,
with music overloud and humor drowned:
a desperate grab at thin festivity
while chaos-crusted gossip passed around.

And as her dining room collected smoke
and drinks were spilled and music pushed to boom,
and someone made another hurtful joke
at anyone’s expense, she watched that room
of aging manic morons masking pain,
reminded why she hates to entertain.