Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!
Draped in shame—
an old torn quilt hangs on frigid, hunched shoulders—
Familiar belonging
at forbidden crossroads of a New Year's Eve;
Mystery forever wakeful on a lighted bridge to nowhere—
longing shivering,
branded words pleading;
the stolen shopping cart stuffed with isolation,
its barbed-wire frame rusty in the glare of empty-bottled accusations,
spot-lit time and again
by steamed up dragons of steel,
swerving, sliding, skidding—
emblazoned torment in the focused, frozen mirror of time.
Complacent masks shift—
fragile clichés, plumped with down, are pulled ever closer—
closing the curtains on one last night,
concealing a game of immaculate charades, "Who is it?"
Mystery flickering in the dark . . .
a shiver in the soul . . .
whispered words that gently plead:
And there's a hand my trusty friend,
And gie's a hand o thine,
And we'll tak a right goodwill drink,
For auld lang syne.