That last night I pressed against you,
      aiming for a good score in Monopoly and friendship
      before the year was out
and the record set.

With the Christmas lights still flashing
      out into the catholic sky
      I saw forever opening, blooming out beyond the porch
as we chanted down the count.

I knew then that I was flaring, out, like the bottle rocket
      (the one going up, not arcing over the next rooftop,
      sparking a dog and curious shouts)
broadcasting back to Times Square.

Ten years in one place, and then in ten seconds I was gone,
      watching it unfold like a memoir,
      the perfect opening scene, on a four-month drought
the raindrops start

at the stroke of midnight.