That last night I pressed against you,
aiming for a good score in Monopoly and friendship
before the year was out
and the record set.
With the Christmas lights still flashing
out into the catholic sky
I saw forever opening, blooming out beyond the porch
as we chanted down the count.
I knew then that I was flaring, out, like the bottle rocket
(the one going up, not arcing over the next rooftop,
sparking a dog and curious shouts)
broadcasting back to Times Square.
Ten years in one place, and then in ten seconds I was gone,
watching it unfold like a memoir,
the perfect opening scene, on a four-month drought
the raindrops start
at the stroke of midnight.