On New Year’s Eve Morning I broke a large clear glass bowl
blundering around in the cupboard for a vessel to soak the black eyed peas.
It dismantled itself into a smaller clear glass bowl.
I marched with the bowls to the curb,
to the trash bin, swathed in a peach blush plush robe
and snugged in Farm and Fleet Red Boots,
crunching the thin mantle of snow.
Half way there the rim of the broken bowl
leapt to my arm, riding as a regal bracelet:
Large and clear and fearsome.
What a strange ritual this is, I thought.
No harm come to me, but could.
Yet I walk as though I’ve always done this
On New Year’s Eve.
On New Year’s Day Morning I broke a bit of molar
indulging in pomegranate seeds for breakfast.
Healthy Start! I hashtagged on Instagram.
Broken Tooth! I did not.
No major harm done, again.
I wasn’t hurt, just falling apart, aging.
They were so lovely, those bright pips, next to Peruvian blueberries
atop the oatmeal in my Japanese bowl,
and the white enamel shard in my hand,
the size of a seed pearl.
The Morning After New Year’s, I made the calls to Dentist,
Insurance, Etc. Due Diligence to start the year right.
Picked up Mrs. Dalloway at the Library,
Slogged off to the clinic for a Shingles shot.
Paisley sleeve struggled up high enough
for the nurse to get a good jab.
Afterwards got the car washed, why not?
Sunny Day, no snow in the forecast.
Queued up with the SUVs in my old Matrix.
They had Green Mountain Coffee in the waiting area.
I opened my book and watched the Cadillacs and Mercedes
In London, Clarissa steps out to the kerb on Victoria Street.
She is older, but feels young.
She recalls many things,
Her mind bright and buzzing with a new day,
A love who is far away.
Big Ben sounds. “There!” Virginia Woolf writes,
“. . . . First a warning, musical;
then the hour, irrevocable.”
It cannot be called back, but how she is
calling, calling, her mind reeling, at sea
as she floats through St. James to Piccadilly.
Even the neighbor sees her as a bird,
Blue-Green like a jay.
Back home, I nap, visions of platelets,
White and red blood cells coursing through
Me, crashing into each other blindly,
as hooks and eyes poured into a plastic packet
tangle while some dead or dying agent skulks unseen.
Two nights ago Big Ben sounded
After being nearly silent for two years.
In Westminster it must have been like the start of a war,
Chiming lyrically, then the deep clangs, like calling the dead,
Here, in winter, we have the owls,
Calling each other deep in the night.
A ghostly hooting as the world sleeps.