Auld Lang Something
A poem about being old and boring on New Year’s Eve
I’ve become quite unsure of what a year is meant to be, the more that have ghosted through me and I through them.
I only know that I have lost the need to tassel the end of each with pyro and promises —
I let each glitch into the next as the days have done for a while now, the bright and dark extremities of twilight.
I have done enough, which wasn’t as much as I once thought it would be. The children are asleep in the next room
and you are next to me, with a mug of cold, sweet wine that the nobs would be appalled at.
My only guess is that the virus may finally mellow this year and the fourth season of Cobra Kai will almost certainly be a disappointment.
My glibness will be no defence against what may come, my glass of Japanese whisky is half empty, as it should be,
and soon, my love, we’ll wish each other a Happy New Year and, not long after that, a slurred goodnight.
30/12/21