So far it's suspiciously similar
to the old year: the same wild cold

wind circling the yard,
and that oozy substance

still clings to the carton of orange juice
I lift from a shelf in the fridge.

Also, I notice that my face
in the bathroom mirror,

fresh from the bed's wrappings,
looks a bit worn.

Last night, in my neighborhood,
a few guns went off amid the firecrackers,

surely a sign that something new
was entering the world,

though the sounds were identical
to the small-arms fire

emitted from the war documentary
I was watching on TV.

It's possible
I missed the transition entirely

by not attending a drunken party,
wearing a pointy hat

and tongue-kissing a few strangers,
and so am still living

in the previous year,
where the windows are rattling

in the storm
and the front door suddenly

slams open
and I just as quickly rush to slam it shut.