I will try again to recite
Gregory Corso's "Marriage,"
as I do every year,
sans champagne now, of course,
to the chagrin of my friends.
but one must earn
that velvet hood somewhere,
along with black heart emojis.
Falstaffian poetry
in the last halcyon days,
saving praise for later.
conflicted fuckers remain
inexplicably silent,
despite New Year's Eve
being just another night.
should I be good?
resist change
at your own peril,
they say.