I want what she’s having,
that Good Time Charly over there—
the one with the pink drink
to go with her pink hair.
The one in the red dress,
and the candy-apple red lips,
wearing heels that could kill,
while dispensing punny quips.
The one with the eyes fringed
with lashes like Japanese fans,
icicles dripping from her ears,
sporting a Day-Glo spray-on tan.
I used to be this grad school gal,
with her plethora of male pals,
all wanting what’s she’s having,
wanting to have her.

I am looking into the mirror,
at the Ghosts of New Year’s Passed,
going on behind me,
until I turn to see only glass—
myself in reflection
of New Year’s Present—
and inside me the bottles at the bar—
lined up like Brach’s Milk Maid Royals—
the Spirits of my New Year’s Future.
I don’t want what she’s having—
I only want what she once had.