january 2
she likes to think she’s representing the every-woman
the one hollywood had her believe in
who wept into tubs of ice cream
and didn’t know what to believe in
it’s sorbet, because here too
she’s part of the disaffected lactose-free city slicker generation
but she digs in the spoon anyway, cold lemon kisses
looking at the opened bottle of champagne
one glassful gone, the rest remaining, fizzling out
between the well-intentioned exercise dvds
the giant christmas-gift chocolate bar
the pine needles on the floor
she doesn’t know / she isn’t sure
what she’s supposed to be celebrating for
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