Cold Bitter News

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The old year departs, like an embittered
civil servant leaving office under a new
administration. His desk is littered
with crumpled papers that refuse to unfold:
the past is past. The sound of his shoe
dies away into the dark and the cold.

Where does a year go? Out in the cold,
down to the bar for a swallow of bitters,
a place he can rest, kick off his shoes
settle back and listen to the TV news.
Years are like sheep, they aren’t born in litters.
There’s only one at a time in the fold

like a single sheet in a manila folder
on a desk in an office that’s growing colder
and colder. Once important, now just litter.
Is it any wonder the old year is bitter
feeling as useful as an unmatched shoe
like any old thing replaced by a new?

The desk calendar says it’s a new
year now: December has to fold
or be torn off. January steps into his shoe,
as months go, lighter but just as cold.
Perhaps he’s too worn out to be bitter
scuffing slowly through dead leaf litter.

The city will give you a fine for littering
but it’s not a crime to make room for the new
by throwing out the old. Embittering
to be disposable, isn’t it? Fold
your coat tighter to keep out the cold
stay warm by dancing the soft-shoe

shuffle, if those tattered shoes
can stand the abrasion from street litter.
Why does the year have to change when it’s cold?
Ah, but this is all old, old news:
last year slouching off under a trifold
umbrella in a wind that bites bitter.

The folds in his face are deep and bitter.
The sidewalk is littered with yesterday’s news
and his worn shoes can’t keep out the cold.