Saturday Night

John Heward

A cool clarinet
shot the screen on the air's back,
voices mingled
at the frat-house frenzy: closer still
and hot over the cool distance--beyond
and near--
night bugs screamed.
Cars splashed an hour past rain,
while a plane drew nearer and went away
before it came.

The windows
through my window were yellow--
curtains kept me out. My window would
look white (if they looked), but I 
downed the Venetian blind and pretended
I was not there.
The faucet leaked
in an unwashed spaghetti pot, a cockroach
explored the wrinkled linoleum floor,
and I sat staring at the ceiling
where an early painting clung,
through the smoke
that had settled in an even cloud,
thinking
of pleasure domes and things.