As we slide off the end of last year

I compliment a man wearing a Frank Underwood for President t-shirt.

He says it fits. Netflix is in danger of feeling better today

than celebrity deaths. Each time I think of their beautiful faces,

WHAM—

I'm back on the shag carpet Dad couldn't afford to replace,

favorite records scattered. Between dances

I moved the needle back, let the cabinet lid fall

BAM,

because the clock was running down to cheerleader tryouts,

and humiliation had already had its way with me:

their laughter when I tripped on the mats in the practice room.

DAMMIT

anyway why did I even want to be one? Our pretend

jitterbug was hard enough, and Princess Leia

would never have compromised herself that way,

so SLAM

say we all to the door at the end of days,

twist up our hope into buns and blasters,

get ready for battle.