The slop of another new year
lies down in the yard,
pale and hungover.
Wet in the arms of the last snow,
the new year
squats in soft, muddy grass,
taking the place
of our three snowmen
who melted, fell, and exist
only as a handful
of white torso
in the rain.
I enter my second half-century
the same way.
As parts of me vanish without warning,
the days feel loaded,
hours ticking me off.
It’s January and the radio predicts
thunderstorms later tonight.
Maybe the new year will stand up
to the lightning and pouring rain,
shake itself sober,
and claim its rightful seat
next to promise and hope.
