A year,
one year has passed.
It crept down the alley in the back
darkening the neighbors' houses
brick by brick.

And now I see it in our faces
and all the shadowed places we forget.
The year has moved from left to right,
from salad plate to coffee cup.
It shows its shadow when your cheeks lift up
to smile, and underneath your lip,
it stained your teeth precisely
where you sip
your tea.

You drum your fingers on the sugar tin
and laugh from deep inside your blouse.

But I have seen its wake;
and soon I shall make myself
awake at six and shave to Debussy.
I shall bring the decades to their knees.

I know you laugh behind your eyes,
yet, still, someday you’ll cry out loud,
“I wish I’d stuck with him
and hadn’t drummed my fingers
on the sugar tin.”