So I am obliged to carry
your walking dead.

Or should I just shrug it off
down the line?

Neither here, nor there
we play peek-a-boo.

Puffed copters,
confetti on the floor.

This room,
this thought.

It’s New Year’s Eve.
“You there! In the rubber-band hat!”

Come quickly,
they’re dropping the ball!

Yours is a question of trust,
mine is one of ethic.

People willing to say:
here’s what I know, take what I have.

A kiss at Times Square,
January steam rising from warm lips.

When young deejays and flames,
still had their whole lives ahead.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013