Auld Lang Syne

There’s a call centre

where all the expired years

are phoning people,

demanding that they return

what isn’t theirs.

1991 called and wants its

mullet back. It was a haircut

gone awry, the barber

wearing specs his grandma

must have donned in ‘49.

When 2005 had phoned,

it wanted the reason you

still need to burn CDs,

lament the laptops of today

no longer house that primitive

feature. I’m the kettle to your

pot—spooling cassettes

with the end of a pencil.

’86 will ring about the

tapes; ’38 the pencil.

The evening that I dined

on mash & bangers?

1954 wants its heart attack

back—while 1968 asks

what gives with the open vest?

’73, my musk cologne.

Thank god I didn’t tie

a sweater around my neck,

strut throughout the mall

like a moron from an

Eaton’s catalogue.

We try to play it hip

with the kids who trudge

in snow: 6-7 we say,

hands bobbing

up & down

as though we’re imbeciles.

That’s when 2025 will buzz,

shout in my Nokia

that remittance is overdue,

embittered that its time came

much too soon,

puckered & greyed

like some crotchety

Zechariah—one foot lodged

in his crypt,

a beard that sweeps the

dust off granite floors.

©2026 Andreas Gripp

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