She's just minding her own business
as she slips through shadowed streets
indifferent and independent
in spite of the saucer of meats
that's waiting when she gets home
sometime
next year
maybe
Passing by the revellers
most don't notice her at all
too busy making merry resolutions
as from bar to bar they crawl
in companionable clusters
of celebrants
in the wake
of a dying year
light footed small and silent
pads through the kaleidoscope
of colours splashed on precipitation
no Pollock could ever hope to equal
a communal
countdown
commences
She pauses on the threshold
of an arbitrary event
devoid of meaning for felines
green eyes stare into a future
personal
private
perfect
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