The vending machine in the hallway,
its glass front revealing rows of Nestle,
Hershey and Oreos. In the bottom right corner,
compact-thin black boxes
marked in red letters: condom 50 cents.
The clumsy lovemaker's pants
trip him at the ankles
as he watches convenience free itself
from the coils, fall into the basin
to be collected. Bodies collect
in the party halways, plastic cups in hands.
The confetti of conversations is swept
into the corner, and I,
alone in the room next door,
am able only to listen.