Your living room couch
a blank hole.
Your affectless grin
in the face of televised chatter.
Your bedeviled yard, filthy from
socialization you didn’t attend.
Half the community mourning
the departure of the sun,
half ecstatic in full plastic ghost worship
under the moon.
Your slow blinking apprehension
when you turn away from
this season of cooling and
finale; if ever there will be
rebirth, it seems mythically far off now,
a prophecy like any other:
affirmed only in retrospect,
long after you miss your chance
to prepare for it
and reap its joy when it comes.
You tell yourself there’s so much to do
before the snow, all those things
to be picked up and stowed
before the first snow, before
the first snow. But
the living room couch is
a blank hole and there’s so much
chatter it’s hard to even think.
Instead you sit with the prophecies,
eyes shut tight, affectless grin in place.
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