NEW YEAR'S

The children stay up, a few friends

Come over for the annual pink champagne

And dead piglet, not served, of course,

Till the New Year, when, on TV,

The Times Square crowds go manic.

At midnight, everybody sees Father Time

Descending the staircase. He looks like

The host, back from the john, besotted,

Glass in hand, and dressed in the shroud

Of a size forty-eight Shetland jacket,

Who passes out on the sofa he's so

Smashed by the cup of kindness. Everybody

Sees the Baby in his face, so peaceful

In sleep he's not even awakened

By the croaking of Auld Lang Syne

Or the hand-ratchet noisemakers meant to dispel

The dead of winter and welcome the spring.