Mr. Old Year

Martin Ott

Parked the murdered-out skeleton
         of his automatic car in the front 
                  yard on cinderblocks, the disembodied
         computer voice in countdown mode,
the number of times we throttled our love.

In the gated complex, a delivery drone
         dropped a package on the doorstep,
                  bottled water from the last glacier,
         models scattering beside a pool,
empty except for your scattered things,

heated with spent and bent titanium rods,
         tsunami-irradiated and sizzling backdrop
                  for selfies, mojito in the foreground,
         recreational vehicle rocking behind,
all the voices reminding me of you.

Electronic cigarettes twirled in Gatsby’s
         fingers, uninvited guests unimpressed
                  with tiny phalluses, breathless and deathless, 
         no way to connect the clouds with the sky,
two people on other sides of the parapet.

The partygoers set the host ablaze,
          on the final ticks with ash billowing
                    from the bowl of the desert city, 
         with a dizziness resembling snow,
a readiness to become the rain.