& perhaps after the dance party, from which people were leaving & to where people were still
arriving, too, you returned
to the car out on Jenkins, in front of the warehouse, where three men were standing,
shirtless in winter, taking hits from a meth pipe & you
said, excuse me, & got in your car, driving back to your apartment, a little high,
or just lonely, & perhaps you turned
back & offered them passage, to somewhere, your own home, a furnace since the heat
vents won’t close, & they took it, the ride
& your body, which you gave them, perhaps each one, however they elected
to take it & you offered no protest, said
take it, it’s yours now & after they used it, perhaps you said thank you & they left
to go nowhere, or back
to the party, from which people were still leaving & to where people were still
arriving, too, & perhaps to where you’ve also
returned, now thinking it better than nowhere, or right there, in your body, which is too full
of new bodies that have not yet got to dance.