Texas Club at New Years
Monique tells me her heart feels older now:
she smears across the bar stool like butter,
all pout and fish-net.
The world takes no notice, but me.
Together we count away the remaining fragments-
like time past my gaze. She smiles:
the year crumbles before us, and is then swept
away like shells and saw dust. The two of us
toast this emergence, but later
spills back against her stool, as I step out
into the night of a new year.