They, not I, planned ahead:
What to wear and where to eat.
Not me, I retreated
And put my grandkids to bed.
The gals giggled and laughed
While the guys slapped backs.
They anticipated a special night.
I rolled my eyes and said goodnight.
They’ll suffer traffic with good cheer
But avoid talking about this year
Too much hurt is laid there—
Buried in France and elsewhere.
They’ll overpay for a so-so meal
And be glad they got a view table.
“Oh look,” she’ll say, “You can see Times Square.”
He’ll answer, “Only the best, for you my dear.”
They’ll listen to hip-hop and dance to Walk the Moon,
Drink out of flutes and share desert spoons,
But they’ll not think of the world’s torments
The ones that invade my quiet moments.
The great crystal ornament will slowly fall
Millions will count and watch the ball.
Billions won’t care about its last stage
Much more interested in a living wage.
He’ll hug her, passionate about his bride.
She’ll return the gesture with love and pride.
I’ll remember my bride with hidden tears
And when we celebrated our new years.
They’ll sneak in to protect my rest
From their noisy romantic quest
Fearful that my mood will depress
At her noisy response to his caress.
I’ll be okay I tell myself.
I’ll put this funk on the shelf.
Very soon I want to believe
But it must be after New Year’s Eve.
© 2015 David P. Cantrell contributing member of the EWI staff