Teetering down 8am street on flimsy heels,
the last-night party sequins clinging
like spackled glitter to first-morning tatters,
passing among bodega owners sweeping out
the last night,
the first morning
broken spectacles and trampled hats
emblazoned with the digits of the new year,
monumental on last-night billboards
now first-morning dross, no more than
assigned numbers to be scrawled in
checks and forms for the next 365.
The first morning.
The last night.
Brash eleventh-hour promises —
trumpeted on paper horns and traffic jamming
with jazzed yelps from the intoxicated chorus
— now sounding mundane and frail
on the hiss of dawn’s cold blues.
seeing god naked 