Wading in trash,
my feet caress
something squooshy.
New Year's chips
now grown stale
on wilting plates.
Carpet...
Old chips crunch
beneath my feet.
Paper horns,
now silent ~
lie on the floor.
January third,
sipping stale beer;
my ears ring.
We huddle
in the blue warmth
of our big TV.
There, a dried bit
of broken wishbone
from Christmas.