where the writers are House-1 - Copy.jpg   Weary with work and
years,   my father would  never make it through  to midnight and
he would  snore as the ball dropped, and on the  floral sofa ---
the one with the dog-chewed arms ---  my mother would  every
year nudge him,  there it is,  look it’s happening,  and he
would  roll his eyes open a crack,  mutter, stutter awake and
their hands would  meet in the bridge mix in the Pyrex  bowl
with the daisies  in the black and white snowy light  of the RCA
and  they would  peck on the cheek  and mumble Happy New Year
and my father would  fall asleep once again  and my mother would
sing along Auld Lang Syne  in a trembly soprano  and she would
munch her bridge  mix and dream,   dream of sequins and
champagne and  Boogie Woogie Broadway and a post-war  honeymoon
night  at the Crossroads of the World,   where I,  I who have
witnessed  prisms on the black plastic in the rain,  I who lost
my best shoes carried by the celebrating mob,  I who have seen
and have travele