I want to sleep through the ball drop again
because my other plans are in the avocado
pit. Hold my own hand, kiss my own face
on the world’s jumbotron. For voyeurism.

Red wine lips on white pillowcase,
thread hanging off my bed. Next year I
will scoop my meager loneliness out
from the bottomless laundry and fold

until I find my good, blue poinsettias
to wear. Maybe I will talk to someone
else’s god on the telephone, ask my mom
how she’s doing so far. Because the rain

has splattered all across the window.
The closer I get, the less I see of everything.