The odd drum of bike exhaust beats outside my open window,
sampling my French cheese and Japanese saki and my idea
of Tupac as Othello in haiku, collar high and proud. The
three-hundred-sixty-fifth day in my city proper,
and NPR chants its name over memories of hurricanes
and death. Some throttle of time never giving in to man,
carbon-monoxide still blowing hard on day three-hundred-sixty-five,
just as proud as any iron cross could be, simple in the cloudy darkness
that comes with hope, backfiring into confetti on ballroom floors, mixing
with my spilled Texas vodka and not-yet sticky American champagne.