New Year's congestion

I'm in a backwards New Year's mood
nothing to say
nothing to do but
to scroll through
a thousand photos of eggs.

last night
twenty-five toasts
with fake champagne
three countdowns to midnight
the last one, a joke.

I rearranged furniture
for forty-five minutes
then put it all back
to the way it was.

I pushed
some magazines around
on the coffee table
and listened to the
same song
fifteen times.

I must be sick
with the ill of the idle
a cold congestion
stuffed with shiny confetti
an expired prescription
in unaware eyes.

last week
I washed a wine glass so hard
that it broke between my fingers
two sliced knuckles
like deep purple rivers
that bled everything inside me.

now
just dried-up sores
next to cheap glass rings
and insides that pour nothing.

stuck in this backwards mood
I must have bled out all I had
and all I ever could.