So we've brought out the champagne,
broken the new clothes out of the closet and
drunk toasts to more broken resolutions;
we've stared at the second hand ticking steadily away
and realized we're more afraid of 01-01-07
than any of us would care to admit.
(but we laugh, and
finger the tablecloth nervously.)

After all
what are new beginnings but purely conceptual
when old trophies grow rusty
and photographs stifle, yellowed
behind their glass prisons?

a/n: funny that the my first poem of 2007 should be the one i just can't seem to (bear to) put a title to.