Dear January,

You’re the favourite month’s follow up,

Your own pity is enveloped by the rest of us.

Everyone, fixated on diet, low-fat, gym crap

You exhibit hibernation, yet you’re everyone’s favourite word.

The talk of the town, you people person, you,

‘I’ll get fit for January.’ ‘It’s January, new year, new me!’

I pity you, first chapter of a twelve section sequence.

Colourless, new and unclean.

Swallowed up by the gulps of water instead of gin,

Swallowed up by 9am starts and The Beatles,

for Paul McCartney (alone) is last month’s favourite.

The trees aren’t red anymore, they sit branch-less,

like a hand let go of.

The mood isn’t right, no one’s spirit is up,

but

we’re here tonight,

is that enough?

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