Auld Lang Syne

A year, like any other, but unlike

so many before.

This one came in, stumbled at

the threshold, spilled its wine on

the white carpet and didn’t

apologize. It was lost from there.

Like a lot of drunks, 2016 didn’t

intend to do it. It was just an accident.

A mistake. It started off with the highest

ideals only to fall into a house of ill repute,

with cocaine crusted around his bloodied nostrils.

It just happened.

So what if 2016 was a serial killer bent

on eliminating the worlds beloved

celebrities, musicians and idealists,

it also took care of a lot of bad people

no one will mourn. Who will remember

2016 did that? “Nobody,” snorts 2016.

2016 wanted to go to the classy bar,

the one downtown, where the tablecloths

are white, the drinks are fancy and the people

are beautiful. But the bouncers wouldn’t let

2016 in. They’d had quite enough of 2015’s

shenanigans and knew better.

2016 didn’t take it well, it went

on a bender of epic proportions. Drinking

and drugging its way from home to home,

heart to heart, and funeral parlor to funeral

parlor.  Shushing people like Dudley Moore

in Arthur and tripping over imagined bumps.

The world just watched as 2016 bumped into

furniture, street lamps, movie stars, gorillas,

politicians, cops, robbers, the guilty, and the

innocent alike. The world just did what enablers

do; they looked the other way and hoped 2016

would just figure it out on its own.  

So here we sit, 2016 and me, at the

end of a dusty bar, dust motes drifting

through the morning sunlight, swirling

around our breakfast beers, the jukebox

is stuck on “American Pie” by Don McLean,

and 2016 doesn’t feel well.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” said 2016.

“You probably should,” I said.

“I mean, what happened? Where did it go

so wrong? Was it me? Was it them,” asked 2016.

“I really don’t know. I was too busy watching you

moon astronauts and eliminate critical thinking,” I said.

“Right, right, that was pretty funny,” said 2016.

2016 got up from its leathery stool and stretched.

“Maybe I’ll just go to the crapper,” said 2016.

“Yeah, maybe you should,” I said.

“Tell 2017 not to take my seat,” said 2016 as it stumbled

toward the restroom.

“Sure. I’ll do that,” I mumbled.

I looked down toward the opposite end of the bar,

a young 2017 was playing with a thin drink straw in

a fancy cocktail, with fruit and a little parasol.

2017 was eyeing us with lust.  

“Not yet baby,” I said, “Not yet.”

2017 pouted and turned away.

I heard a flush from the restroom and 2016

walked back into the bar room

with its pants around its ankles.

“One more round barkeep,” 2016 shouted.

The bartender frowned but got the drinks.

“I broke your toilet too, by the way,” said 2016.