in preparation for january 2

men in bloated tummies stagger round upstairs

blabber incoherently
a cloud of dope surrounds beach towels and swimmies,
my magnetic chess set, a birthday gift never used
stuffing suitcases like bellies
asking, "does my face look puffy?"
"it looks fine"
not sure if i'm lying

i don't know his face well enough for judgment 

satisfied he retreats to his luggage lair

i listen to the rain

a car passing

fire sputtering
dog softly snoring
near a half undressed christmas tree

not ready for the lights to join

childhood nostalgia, a mix that means nothing and everything

in its cardboard boxes 

one last night in the living room with my lights

hoping two swollen men might remove them before tossing dehydrated tree to the curb

a southern mother says this is the rule of january 1