I. Turn Mid night year’s eve TV tube, you reflect the image of old year wait, of murky haze, of yellow wall, of shadow bed, and of me beaming in your fish-eye a toothy grin. Look at me framed in your eye of blank, lying on simpy bed, my eyes, bleary and sad, lit up by sick little candle on this gray eve of the great eve. II. Counterturn Why so full of wait, old year? I feel sorry on your sorrow eve. I feel sorry about those dying moments and pity the struggling illness of bye-bye. The image of TV past is on its knees. The switch is off and there it begs with open eye and rabbit ears akimbo. Where flew your inner light, oh tube? Where lingers your weeping spark? Poor clod, no one fondles your ears of silver. You and throwback year are in a hopeless muddle. Your dumpy eye reflects the ghost of gone time. III. Stand Old year wait. I disinherit you, you crumb! I cast you forth on your corny nose. Bah! The big hand is rising, the candle failing. Soon, turncoat, you and image gone will be no more. There I grin in the TV of old year sleep, but here I grin again in waking flesh. Wink, and the candle is kaput, but not I who do the winking.
5 January, 15 March 1977