in forty years, when i look back
with the noose joking around my neck
the wife baking in the kitchen
i'll think about this moment and smile

i'll wish my friends stuck it out a while
each one of them either dead or fat
calling on new year's eve for a two minute chat
about the mistakes we made in our twenties

the sting of old books has lost the hope
that used to linger in the delusional nihilism
of coffee at two at night
when the optimism of meaning was a punchline