Will the Last Person in Town

please put out the lights?

There is a strange quality after a party.
No people, but still the sound of speaking.
Flattened parts in the grass as if deer had
slept there. I wander through the garden,
on a lazy scavenger hunt for glasses, plates,
cowbells. I find some in the lilies. But the full
& lonely feeling makes me want to keep these
things where they are, to leave the tablecloths
on the line. A mysterious dog ambles through,
and both of us wonder where all the people
have gone again, the ones who came back
for the longest day of the year - to chew their
wine, sip their blood sausage, & do the work
it takes to make a place. Thank you.