Come January Poem by Lori Boulard

Boxes emptied and bellies full,
we face the lazy aftermath. Thousands
of lights now appear garish, choruses
of hope hollow and trite.

Nothing to do but wrap the remains-
tidings and trimmings, tangled strands
of family tucked in boxes to re-open
like surprises next December.

Tonight we will go on, grow up
and give heave-ho to this last year,
donning paper hats and plastic intentions
(still soon broken for a lesser investment)
and bubble up one last wish
for better everything come January.

(Bonne année tout le monde!)