I guess when we said “let’s all meet up

in the year 2000,” back when hairspray

rivaled nitrogen for Grand Poobah gas

in our atmosphere, we could never have

imagined we would have lived this long.


Now 2000 is yellowing, the edges are

curling up in my mind. For all I know

the fountain has evaporated by now,

or congealed into a pit of tar, in which

archaeologists might one day find a love

letter, words blacked out, illegible.


But let’s all meet up in the year 2000.

It will be strange, I know it will, strange

and wonderful to see all of you like

you stepped out of a photograph, like

we never forgot all of our promises,

like 2000 is the one year that lasts