So far it’s suspiciously similar
to the old year: the same wild cold
wind circling the yard,
and that oozy substance
still clings to the carton of orange juice
I lift from a shelf in the fridge.
Also, I notice that my face
in the bathroom mirror,
fresh from the bed’s wrappings,
looks a bit worn.
Last night, in my neighborhood,
a few guns went off amid the firecrackers,
surely a sign that something new
was entering the world,
though the sounds were identical
to the small-arms fire
emitted from the war documentary
I was watching on TV.
I missed the transition entirely
by not attending a drunken party,
wearing a pointy hat
and tongue-kissing a few strangers,
and so am still living
in the previous year,
where the windows are rattling
in the storm
and the front door suddenly
and I just as quickly rush to slam it shut.