New Year's Eve on Chestnut Street,
And the choir boy who longs to speak
To you, or her, or anyone,
Doesn't seem to have much fun
Staring at the patterned roses
On napkins, or the massive doses
Of tequila in the frozen glass.
He slurs his sad hymns. Is it time again?
For another midnight when you'll pretend
To know the things we'll never know,
Swirling in future memories of snow
Beautifully outside the realms of men.
Heaven help you disguise this beauty
From the damning lives of God and duty.
Nathan Woods, editor/overlord