She sits cross-legged on the carpet
apart from the others as she doodles
on her post it notes
She pastes one here, one there, and
another on the coffee table
and then waits for us all to gather round
for the show and tell
We told her it wasn’t that kind of party
that we just wanted to eat and drink
and flirt and talk
yet she held her ground and kept scribbling
and said don’t you all want
to see my art?
Well this is awkward a few of us thought
signifying such with eyebrows raised
yet perhaps pity calls for us to scoot over
and let her explain her masterpiece
and so in condescension we drift her way
and as her eyes brighten and she whispers
the story she has devised
we all find ourselves hushing
because we find ourselves wanting
to know how the story ends
and guess what?
It turns out it was that kind of party
for the sharing of art
and bearing of souls
it turns out that sometimes
the two can be one and the same
what do you know?
And so now I find myself scribbling poetry
and seeking to find a friendly soul to read
who will do me the honor?