for january

lentils and summer sausage is a pretty fine thing
when you have nothing in particular.

that January feeling—rain’s fine
it really wouldn’t matter
if it rained bacon fat
for a month

(my mom used to collect bacon
fat in a plastic tub

until a mouse died
in it)

basically though
when summer ends the poets say it dies
but winter flees

it doesn’t ever die—
why not?

good things always die, for some reason
and evil’s always hiding somewhere dark—
it’s probably for the best.

January’s lovely though.
like an old family friend
who visited once a year
when you were little—God
only knows why—but
that’s the point isn’t it?

expecting nothing and receiving nothing
January is an honest month

winter not so old and year still young
it’s fantastic
but no one has probably
ever written about a dying January

good for them.

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