with your pointed
party hat on,
askew, and your
smile littered
with booze, so
soon, so long before
the clock ticks
twelve, checking
your phone, your
your shoes, your
new blouse torn
seeing who
in the mirror,
almost you, almost
blue. holding
the whistle horn
in your hand, with
friends around,
moving side to
side as if on
a wobbly ship,
waiting, waiting
for ball to drop,
for the band to
play, for someone,
anyone, to kiss you
and tell you that
next year will
be just fine, that
everything will
be okay.
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