To the year of fluids:
4 a.m. seismic waves, bursting through
silver pipes decayed by decades of sleep;
a hoarse cry navigates narrow, waste-encrusted tubes—
brittle veterans against the pressured current;
slapped with a shocking rush of white foam,
heralding months of soggy, plodding reconstruction
into a wet season.
Wind sweeps intermittent showers into lines on soil and ‘sil,
pooling puddles that reflect slow-dawning surprise
on a markedly resigned mien.
To the year of tears:
Intestinal infestations on the 4th of July—explosive,
poorly-timed pyrotechnics to complement an over-stretched gait—
a detached ligament, crippling travel, fracturing relations-
hips, spines, and hearts.
A breakup with social media…
To the tired year. Cheers!
I should never give toasts.