hot tea, old mug, good book:
just me & tinnitus
ringing in the new year

not much depends upon
the black mailbox glazed
with freezing rain but
dammit the car door is stuck
& the driveway is a deathslide
despite two bags of ice melt
so what was the point
of pretreating when winter
clearly doesn’t give a shit
about my weekend plans?

the lucky piglet has brown rot.
its cloven eyes mouldered.

its toothpick legs collapsed;
its lucky penny corroded in september.

year’s end was rife with mischance
& raw deals, death & bad weather:

next year we’ll construct a grapefruit sow
& hope our luck holds out

red eye flight
too damn early
to save a few bucks

the wind says fuck it & settles down,
buys a little house with a nice yard, a
modest car, a Ford, maybe, a boat it
keeps on the lake near town until one
day the sun shows up exasperated,
saying what are you doing?, the clouds
in tow & whinging as they do & the
wind shrugs & says you told me to go
& the clouds start crying & the sun
says now look what you’ve done & the
wind says not my clouds, not my
rainstorm & blows the door shut
& returns to the bath

unlike your iphone
you have a right
to repair your heart

bruh

I regret to inform you
there are no more hot
toddy peanuts as they
tasted like ass & not
in a good way so much
so that even the birds
shit them undigested
on your new cybertruck
which is ironic in a way
you wouldn’t understand