Run-off

The wine is all gone and the laughter is loud,

I’m the smallest part of a very big crowd.

They’re talking of taxes and titles and land,

while I’m sitting there with my head in my hand.

'Go get some more ice,' is the thing that they say,

so I’m out in the hall and I’m walking away.

The elevator’s silver, the lights are too bright,

as I carry the bucket through the middle of night.

It sweats on my shoes, making circles of gray,

on the leather I polished for most of the day.

The ice is a rattle, the bucket is cold,

I’m the only one here who is not getting old.