By Donna Jones.
Last year’s detritus lies sulking,
Skulking in mud,
Trapped between yesterday and tomorrow’s resolutions.
Torn Christmas cards, fox torn bags, seepage.
Mouldy peelings, used panty liners, and wet dog shit.
Shredded days too short for our wish lists, split wish bones.
Strawberry, orange creams,
The last of half bitten chocolates.
Indifferent presents, gifts for next year.
Impatience wishes the tree away,
Space grabbing nuisance.
This after feel slinks in the space between holiday adverts,
Premature sunny days and tanning sprays.
Bank statements lie unopened
As we lie to ourselves of the damage done.
Hide what we cannot afford and
Cut 1 of 8 credit cards to freeze our guilt.
We concentrate on other news,
Take a journey to dissent, famine and fame.
Our small worries drizzle as theirs flood in a torrent of despair.
At least we are still alive, live in a democracy, have family, we say.
The 52-inch screen smiles back.
Nought percent finance and 3 years to pay.
