A Wretched Year of Twerks
The renovations are done
until we need to do them again.
'Tis the season to wipe the blood from our noses.
Sorry, I've stained the snow again.
I am truly in a log cabin of conflict.
Roughing it with my wood stove heart.
Why does autocorrect keep changing
wood stove to Woodstock?
At least it's cozy in here.
Cozy is the nice way of saying small.
We wait for a small sign.
We dream of space travel and multiverses.
My mission for New Year's: think up a mission.
Then follow through with it.
This year Santa came again.
The nights awed, got longer.
Together as we sit in front of our many screens,
remember pixels cannot caress us back.
Poetry makes something happen
but I still don't know what exactly.
Do you know?
It's hard to get up after falling down.
But gosh, it's so comfy down here.
It smells of peppermint bark.
Despite no fridge. Minty fresh.
Miley stops twerking for a minute
and the world holds its collective breath.
Dear friends, the time has come to forgive.
Don't bottle it up inside.
That's how to make oneself sick.
Next year let us hope for less
[fill in the blank].
My son has found his toes!
Lets all of us find our feet.
- Greg Santos, Montreal, 2013