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-

 Monique spins 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

 she spills back against her stool, as I step out

into the night of a new year.