NOT ALL IT'S CRACKED UP TO BE

We Didn’t See the Ball Drop
J.B. Rowell

But I can see 504 faceted crystal
triangles inside my lids from all
those years I didn’t make it out:
too young, left alone wrapped
in a brown and avocado afghan,
propped on elbows on floor
in front of TV drinking
root beer and sucking on rock candy.

Or old enough and passed out.
Left on a friend’s apartment floor,
covered with a strange-smelling coat.
Left to wake blinking at the city
that never sleeps, especially tonight,
listening to the ringing in my ears
of a silent new year.

Or married with children,
Baby New Year in a sleeper-tux,
princess in her satin nightgown
raising sparkling apple cider in real
champagne glasses. Throwing
homemade confetti then
scooping it up when the guests
of honor went to sleep.

We stood, when someone’s cell
phone clock struck midnight
touched blue plastic cups, no clink,
had a drink, sat back down
leaned into the back rest
you made in the corner of the couch.