Burning Beans on New Year’s Eve

(verses I forgot)

Chaff like petals on a coffee Buddha fretting:
Sunday roast does stink up a worthy one,
some other me in love with gods and gallimaufry

rates me so awful we skip to the next crack, 223°
daily jabber with this guy over, in the face of it,
growing small. Is metaphor low serotonin now?

Always roast to primes, my father never said
seedy common or exclusive composites—
that cloud burns away with the vision fade

fogged instead, memory for desire
one small circle the other’s child and the other—
more than I can say. Is more TV apprehension?

Shooting through unlikely integers annually
child-me plumped for quite a lot, fingers done,
and now, repetitively, quite a lot more

moving onto whatever’s next and, failing that,
inventing next, my page never neat as a story
loss of day, joke-made, boredom-perfect,

beans abandoned to the fireworks.