new year poem

the capacity he had to land knob end always up amused her
would its heat ever attain the melting point of lead?
in the chill quiet they stay alloyed together. brief spell
of rain marks the end of another year. (if
you roll the count forward as you progress, the year never ends)
the playful rascat's grating meow gets the door opened
i am holding a last few soiled eggs to my chest, reaching
out with one hand for the latch; but they slip and fall
so spills my wife's wages over the floor. i am too spent to
kneel down. This is the end of me for sure. the final sermon. Arcadia.
she might be there; the sticky one. I am bewitched by it.
she might be there - and yet hold the key. I am always looking
for it, even in dreams. The silken caress. The sauce has run out
and yet there is still food on the plate to eat. I am lonely.