A one and a two-ah…

I know

that when I die

it will be in January

or February.

These two months,

these awkward hurdles

that start the year,

they vex me.

It’s not the weather

or the lighting…

November and December

do not treat me this way.

It must just be

that the start of the year

carries with it

so much apprehension

of what must come to be

and so much disappointment

over what has been.

In a way,

these two months

are like the scales of truth:

In their eight short weeks

I must weigh out

all of my failings.

I move to put

my thumb on the scale

only to have it

slapped back.


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