Look Back in Languor

One last time the old year slips away
Before the Mayans’ Last Recorded Day.
I’d say it takes the pressure off to know
I needn’t Christmas shop before we go
Except December 21st is when
The end is due; I never start by then.
They’re playing Gershwin’s Rhapsody In Blue
At Lincoln Center (on my TV, too),
Which begs the question: Why trade Old for New?
The Justin Bieber/Lady Gaga crew
On ABC may float Dick Clark’s old boat,
Though I suspect that, secretly, he’d vote
For Gershwin, too, but “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve”
Is like a broken heart upon his sleeve:
So much a part of him that even though
He knows it’s long past time, he can’t let go.
Still, when the ball has fallen once again,
And “last year” won’t refer to twenty-ten,
Old Dick and I will bottle up and shelve
This vintage year and look to twenty-twelve
To find the answers that elude us yet.
What were the questions? Dick and I forget.

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Obelisk: Transcribed

Two birds, an eggplant and a sofa
All on a Thursday afternoon
Planned to have some college classmates over
For fondue, ’cause they couldn’t find a spoon.
The eggplant held its breath ’til it was dizzy
And the sofa lost its cushions in the change.
The small bird called the cops (the line was busy)
And the tall one drowned in cheese sauce. Very strange.

Delightful

A pair of handy household tips
For pulling bulbs from stubborn sockets:
Mulish lamps will loose their grips
When struck by raw potato rockets.
Oftentimes a bulb will shatter
If a tater hits too hard;
Unless you’d like your blood to spatter,
Use the spud to shift the shard.

Loquackcious

“Quack!” he said, loquaciously,
Before he bared his leg to me.
I mean, his teeth. His teeth were bare.
His legs were sheathed in underwear
(Unusual in tropic climes
And binding at the best of times
Unless you’re very cold, or shy,
Or thought it might be nice to try
Those flannel footie things with flaps
Secured in the rear with snaps
For quick release, which might make sense
If stricken with incontinence
But otherwise seem out of place
Unless possessed of freakish grace).
In any case, loquaciously
With naked teeth, he quacked at me,
And all because I’d asked him, “Hey,
So, what’s the deal with Boxing Day?”

Aftermath

We’ve opened the presents
And gobbled the treats
Tried on the new bowties
And socks for our feets
The catnip-tripped kitty
Careens down the stairs
And topples the wrapping
Still stacked on the chairs
The dog chews her new toy
We skim through our books
Entropic, chaotic
In no way exotic
Ensconced in our own cozy nooks
That’s how our post-Christmas looks