I stand,
and write tonight,
just an idiot in the wind.
eating mortadella,
feeling my belly thank me,
especially for the club soda
and this morning's pickled egg.
bothering bands
for the new podcast,
and practicing my voice
in the mirror with a hairbrush.
drinking vodka
out of a beanie in my backpack,
wishing for a good year,
which starts right here.
broke the blinds today
off the sliding glass door,
but I don't regret a thing, because
now the world can see me write this poem.