The rain falls, cold marble tears 

shredding the gold and cinnamon 

feathered boas the trees put on for 

their final party of the year.

They hadn’t been in a festive mood, 

not at first — a long summer of heated 

exchanges and dry spells left them

feeling used and abused by the powers 

that be.

 

But in the eleventh hour they 

donned their finery and showed up,

showed out, took to the streets to

drink the wine of the winding year,

sing the festival songs, clap shoulders,

slap asses, get rowdy.

 

And now it’s morning, and they’re a motley 

band of sloppy drunks, saggy and hungover, 

shivering with shame, leaning on one another 

in the cold light of day,

wondering what, how, why they did

what they did on the front lawn last night,

the residue of bad decisions scattered in 

sodden chunks at their feet.