Firecrackers sneak inside,
Painting my unlit room.
The thin white door, now hued,
Let’s me hear the old
Chants welcome the new.
Glasses wait for a choral clink
And the bubbly corks are primed.
Eleven-Fifty-Nine heralds hugs
And handshakes, alas,
All are initiated ill-timed.
Promises are cataloged, to be
Filed in weathered cabinets;
As we pledge our sobriety,
Upon toasts of champagne
Among half-empty glasses of wine.
Yet, as the clock hands close,
Young couples crowding
Old lovers’ homes, tremble;
Their first kisses flooded
By an encore of ringing phones.

 

Aniketh Khutia