Poem-A-Day: Day 49

Balls

It’s a new year marked by balls dropping.

How prophetic,
or metaphorical,

as some baby representing good fortune
dances around in a diaper and sash.

But what of the old fortune,
the hard knocks,
time passed,
and moments missed?

It’s been a year of what ifs,
Holy shits,
did we just do that,
change we can believe in,
fuck ups,
done wells,
firsts,
seconds,
and most certainly not the lasts.

A year marked with a toast;
burning bridges of the yesteryear
with clinking glasses
and champagne supernovas.

Weeping and joy,
it’s something or other, a mess most likely.

And on the dawn of a new day
comes nothing more

than the memory of balls.