A Poem for New Year's Eve
The two of us are older now
(ahem, much older).
Wrinkles soften the formerly taut plains of our faces
and we no longer need to be the center of attention.
We have nothing left to prove.
Our inner party animals slumber,
safe and secure in the comfort of the lumpy bodies of former
wild children.
No drunken New Year’s Eve bacchanalia,
no stay-up-to-prove-you’re-having-fun for us.
Tonight, we’ll ring in the New Year together,
on the couch.
The cat,
weighing in at more than a bowling ball but (thankfully) still
less than a refrigerator,
will manage to nestle between and on each of us,
the way he
likes it best.
We’ll all watch a movie;
it doesn’t matter which one.
And when 9:30 p.m. rolls around we’ll wish each other a
Happy New Year,
because, in Newfoundland,
it is.
Then we’ll turn off the TV, stoke the fire, and head
upstairs
to sleep, and to dream
of the year ahead and of us,
and of our lives,
together.
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| The "big-boned" Fionn MacCool (all delicious 13 pounds of him) |
