Years End
Revelers loiter in my backyard,
smoke pensively, whisper low.
Some pace the thin snow
writing their slow thoughts on the chill earth.
All of them shuffle and wait
for the big glittering yell
and the last minute kisses of reprieving angels.
At midnight I am not sure
where my thoughts will land
it is too cold for bat flights around the moon.
When this year topples into the next,
if not too weary of watching
from the top of my plasma screen,
I will crouch like a comic book gargoyle.
As the bells ring out
I might crack one gothic stony faced sneer,
listening stoically to ‘auld lang syne’
sung by roving bands of reapers.
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