it grinds on, urging me to quit my job three days
before Christmas and become a yogi, a teacher,
a sailor, a student, just a week before a New Year
I'm not ready to ring in without a cigarette, a shot
glass full of fuck-it, and the familiar sense that my life
is a serious of missteps, the backwards waltz
of a drunken, three-legged pit bull in a sequined gown
on a television dance competition.
There's magic there, and sometimes it's funny,
but I never make it to the finals stage.
No, this dog and I--this graceless street mutt and I--
we whirl and turn and occasionally fall down, laughing.
We kick our five legs not quite in unison, the world's
sloppiest can-can, and both wake up hungover,
me holding my head waiting for the spinning to stop,
the dog asking in its dog language, "Are we there yet?"