New Year’s Day

We have no black-eyed peas, and the snow

that was supposed to come didn’t come.

The pork turned; the greens are bitter;

the moon wanes, and the dog’s in heat.

Still, there’s some hard happiness,

a solid place to set your drink,

like wood, or stone, granite, gold,

like a body, not imagined or projected,

but sitting on the other side of the table,

a face in a spoon, a soft frayed napkin,

recounting the last few decade’s dreams