Predictability Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The new year is upon
Us like an ensuing warfare
Between mad tyrants.

What I abhor about
These times is that
The clocks
Are plagued
The people
Are mad.

They talk about
Resolutions
More like
Feigned compensations.

The women talk about
Getting themselves
A finer fix
Of hair
A different shade of
Lacquer,
New flaming red stilettos
And an eloquent
White dress.

The men prattle about
Getting themselves
Finer women
A burly, statuesque physique
A new pair of vagabond shoes
That long to stray.

I don’t get them sometimes.
Whenever I hear them talk,
It’s like listening to children
Trying to descry the mystery
Behind the great romances.

After they have refurbished
Themselves,
They will take turns in marveling
At what they’ve become

But as time slowly eats
Them away,

They’ll realize
That they haven’t changed
A modicum in this
Moribund attempt
Of alterations.

They still ruin things
For themselves
And other people.

As I sit here
In front of the typewriter,
I will let them
Bask in the forthcoming
Festivity.

And I know
The predictability.
They’re still the same -
Only veiled haphazardly
By things that glint
With splendor.