AT THE END OF A YEAR

Our own version of winter:
The morning fog afflicts us with
temporary myopia;
The early cold continually snoozes
our alarms.
Hence, more childbirth in September.

The car zooms past us,
leaving behind
a mushroom of dust,
which find homes on
thirsty leaves and naked roofs.

Wrinkled lips like dried tree barks;
In between fingers and toes,
‘white’ strategically hides.
Sometimes giving the illusion of
a hastily powdered skin.

Skit:
On TV,
a kid wails in betwixt laps
of a grinning-rotund-black-white-bearded-man
in loose fitted red and hat of same.

Wasteful spending begins:
My neighbour has starved
all through the year, to fatten her purse.
Only to empty its contents on stocks,
needed and unneeded, to be
demolished in two hurried gobbles!
Every other year, she’d repeat same.

Quick ascension period on the financial scale and all other weighted ills:
Birthing houses scythed for day old young;
The road lies in wait with an appetite larger than ever,
Twisted metals and shards of jagged glass smeared scarlet
are remnants from its daily meal,
Still beings void of organs
flank our roads;
All forms of nappers device new means
and revise old means for capture;
Our own forceful and erratic aurora borealis,
with showers of debris and disjointed beings,
casts a gloomy shade all over.

Why this sudden change?

‘Season Greetings.’

Now it all makes sense.