The roaches scuttle out from under

old chip packets, kebab wrappers.

One AM on a Sunday; mad as hot

and twice as hell.
I left my voice back at the bar,

hanging in a slur around a friend’s

strange mouth. My tongue cut loose

and danced against my teeth, slipped

up on liquor. I left it there.
And now the street is silent.
Outside an abandoned night spot

the carcass of the New Year dangles

from a silver ball. I wonder

for what crime he hung. 
The count-down clock stopped one

to twelve flashes in dreary digital.
Guilty or not

              time’s body swings.