She stares at the same ugly
diptych on the wall
day after day
without pausing
to contemplate how crookedly
the panels are hung.

Because it’s a new year,
today she does.

Twin heads
of a smoke-breathing
man with third eye
and goatee. One with
black hair, the other white.
Noise in the background

on both sides, the chins
don’t align.

Then a plastic pint
of whiskey falls
from a man’s pocket.
He doesn’t notice
till two women call out:

“You dropped something.”

Because it’s a new year,
the cafe’s quiet before noon.