resolve

Here we go again

Writing the old white dog into poems

Cold sunlight ricocheting off the wall

Doing our best to keep our heads clear, our voices kind

January first, and I haven’t left the house, haven’t left my nightgown even

Champagne cocktails will do that to you

Yesterday I crashed a moped into a parked Saab, just seconds after accelerating

It was not as much like riding a bike as I assumed

Only a few small scrapes to all parties, but I was left with a sense of impending dread

Fearing this was a sign of the coming year

So I’ve lazed about, that little voice insisting:

-- “Pick up your feet god dammit!

Commit and get moving!”