Celebration of Losers

This morning the roadway lacks friends,
the bench by the garden side is empty.
A bicycle nestled against the arbor
seems remote and no dog enters to smell
the trees, hollow, air boasts no birds,
children stay hidden behind their echoes,
and, poor in spirit, I dredge up my
failures in recollection.

Shall I wear a black armband?
weep in my beer? Not me, boy,
I can still flap my wings.
Tonight I shall throw a dinner for
the mayor of Detroit, a boy soprano,
a major in shining boots, a priest,
and we shall eat crow together
and carve our habits into tombstones
and mark the New Year.