New Year

Two on the table. Forgot all about them

for a hazy three hours laughing with former

friends in a bright cheap bar through beer

squeezed from a sponge like vinegar. Drank it

anyway; had to. Laughed at futures

and stalled futures and the way we talk

about the past as if it’s the future. It never

has been – never will be either,

not even when one of them lights up about

cosmetology school and her new

passion as if it wasn’t all just vinegar

and beer thrown up onto the bright wood

floorboards. Counted it on too many fingers.

Came to what was called home and look,

it’s been months since I’ve used a personal

pronoun. Sometimes I can’t hide and so

I’ll just say it:

I came home and saw two presents on the table

and I was drunk and I had forgotten.

I had forgotten they were there; was glad

to have forgotten; forgot to forget them; saw

them again. Three hours earlier in a dark

brown living room a man who used to have

a family stretched out his arm with two

presents for a birthday diminutively set

between Christ’s and the year’s, presents

he had chosen by himself for the first time

because who could help him? Saw them,

saw them again three hours later, saw by

their shape a calendar and a dvd. Thought

to open them, the gifts from a man whose

name was known once. Thought:

the doorway to an infinite sadness is here.

Thought: it is too dark here. Turned off the lights

and sat at the table. Did not open.