New Years Eve

The place is a shoebox.

Big enough for one person.

Or two cats.

But not all three of us.

Stuffed like the Wonka family

bursting at the seams-but safe.

One has hair. The other doesn’t.

As if that compensates for something.

There’s one window.

Light pours, subtle penumbra.

It’s the best feature of the apartment.

Warm, not bright.

Just enough to eclipse the desk.

The desk is a mess.

But it’s well-loved with articles, manuscripts and coffee rings.

The work gets done.

Eventually.

Only during the after hours of the stock market.

Opera rotates clockwise while the needle drags against the vinyl.

A-sing-along “Music of the night”

i’m quite good.

The fridge has drawings.

Scribble suns and stick arms.

I keep them all.

It’s not a family,

but it’s a start.

The faux cowhide impersonates tastefully,

West Elm poise.

The TV is curvy and smart.

That makes one of us.

I stuffed it in my four door avenger RXT that appears like I

‘back the blue’ or ‘sling the dope'

depends on the scale your perception

teeter-totters.

Departing the Estate sale on New Year’s Eve,

no one should’ve let it go that cheap.

Igor lives in a tiny little greenhouse, a cemetery with live moss,

between two stone gargoyles and the Mona Lisa.

I always wonder what she looks like from the view of eight eyes.

His Turkish fangs, a lander blue-green has sparkles in them,

mesmerized by every bite.

Everytime I spot him, I am thankful for alot.

Because he does that-The impossible in a box.

He watches from the shelf,

nestled between old classics and papier-mâché Dracula.

At midnight I flip through the HD channels,

It views like a cinema in 200-sq ft.

A little overbearing, especially when the ball dropped,

felt like I didn’t miss out while missing out.

Quite eventful

as I waited,

but not sure for what.

Moral of the story, I sing Opera.

And the cats don’t mind.