The smell of death rattle leaves mingles
with the sweet, hopeful scent of perfume
along a neon sidewalk midway
with its roundabout carousels
and flashing life flight chopper rides.
“Mao?” She smiles, leaning on the bar.
“Not mao enough,” I mumble, I think.
I’m not sure if my lips part enough
for words, breath or just the next shot.
It’s been a long year with rumors
of an early rapture.
Tomorrow there will be a sad accordion
and glockenspiel breaths where pumpkins
listen on a fire escape, their jack-o-scenes
as forever as our best moments.
Still, we can celebrate.
Lose your mask for me this holiday
and I’ll shed my yesterday skin.
Drink with me and I’ll tell you everything.