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The clock hangs for us to see
as it ticks away, slowly. More slowly
than the days before this one.

Dick Clark sits in another time zone.
He sounds so small, so far away. But he talks
to me through the tinny sounds of the rec room TV.

I can’t taste the New Year in here.
Fear falls down on me
like confetti.

Lights out at ten,
midnight does not await us
ten…nine…eight…

My party hat is darkness
My noisemaker is silence
seven…six…five…

I drink down my champagne of shame
and soon feel drunk with depression
four…three…two…

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and days of auld lang syne?

…one.












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