New Year’s Eve, 2005
2005 is ending tonight with icy roads.
The long ridges are foggy and steep,
and they have edged around a plane
waiting where the pilot can’t read riddles.
I hear the engine’s faintness now.
It is rambling over the tall pines
and circling near with its quick midnight
while the Times Square ball descends.
The plane makes the only sound
that I can hear from the porch.
I imagine the pilot is a famous guitarist.
I imagine his wife’s voice disappearing.
The co-pilot is already invisible
watching the fog darken across the ridge.