One by one
they drift back
to their apartments,
company cars laden
with feral gifts—
after-shave, a racquet,
vintage port
in balsa boxes
to decorate a tip.
Neatly knotted,
a stray tie dangles
from a visor. Night
flicks over like a
vinyl record, scratched.
Grilling steak,
bachelors whistle
in the only cool,
regretting stomachs
no longer flat.
Celebrations over,
they sprawl on beds
territorially,
new fans cooling
day-old resolutions:
sobriety, gymnastics,
the horn of independence.
—Peter Rose, “Boxing Day” from The Catullan Rag, 1993
