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Under the gazebo's roof

In my dream,
The elbows of my coat are eaten out,
But no one seems to notice the ragged holes.
The guests dip their faces into the tepid punch;
They come up pink and dripping, licking their lips.
I will leave the party soon.

Later, I sit in the ruined gazebo, playing cards.
“In the desert,” begins the iguana, “socialists are rare.”
I think of solitude and heat,
While rain spatters weathered planks, my hair, my shoulders,
The iguana's cracked and dusty hide.
In my dream, the house is silent now;
The party will be over soon.

Like endolithic vikings who have forgotten even their names,
The iguana and I sit, motionless, under the gazebo's roof.
Our thoughts leach out like water-soluble dye and
Soak into the floor.