black socks

I'm lonely,
she calls to tell
you on new years eve.
you can hear
her cat purring
in her lap,
the slight slosh
of wine
in her glass
as she tilts
it towards
her lips,
then a sigh.
what are you doing,
she says?
ironing socks,
you tell her.
no really, she says.
why aren't you
out tonight
ringing in
the new year.
going to some wild
party?
I don't like new
years eve, you
tell her,
the confetti,
kissing strangers,
the bad food
and too much drinking.
plus I have
a basket of black
socks to sort
and iron.
we're old aren't
we, she says,
crunching on some
re-gifted
peanut brittle
she got for Christmas
from you.
perhaps, you
say, perhaps.