August 12, 2022Through New Year’s Eve
1999—Prince sang about it.
Media over-conflated it, remember?
Y2K—computers worldwide would
crash.
Expectations were high
and I
threw my worst party ever,
a royal dud! Few people showed
and those who did watched CNN
all night, as the world
rang in without incident
I felt responsible for the awful
night I was sure my friends had.
Growing up, it was a special
night; instilling her Dutch heritage,
mom would prepare apple
beignets and oliebollen, a dumpling,
with a whispered dusting of
powdered sugar. The next day—ooooh
how they tasted great 1, 2, even 3
days old—we watched on television
the Tournament of Roses Parade and then
brother and mom: college football. Pop
took us once, I’ve been told, to see it
live in Pasadena—but I don’t remember.
I’m sure I must’ve loved it—all those
floats, and flowers, and people!
One New Year’s, flying the Friendly
Skies—not a very prescient slogan—
I had a four-day layover in Paris.
At the midnight hour, autos everywhere
came to a halt, blaring their horns
and I
alone in a taxi
continued to a club in my
most magical of cities.
“Write what you’re afraid to say,”
I’ve been advised by more than one.
Okay. I’ve
spent too many New Year’s
Eves
in prison.
It’s—different,
discordant.
But I alone
am responsible.
from #76 - Summer 2022