—Tennyson
The cat's asleep
On the chair
And outside
The streets are draped
In white sheets
Until April
When we’ll open
Windows again
And let in fresh air
On my walk
I spot the super moon—
A golden fishbowl
On the horizon
But no one else is out
Probably nursing
A hangover
Of course, no years
Of any kind exist
And what there is
We count from scratching
On cave walls
With a charcoal tip
Assigning names and dates
Where none exist
So, I’m not about
To break out
The bubbly
That’s sitting
in frigid peace
In my garage
For something
That doesn’t exist
Or never did
If I did lift a glass
I’d toast a few friends
Who passed
But wouldn’t
Waste a dime
On a mythical category
Of the mind
That comes
In the darkest season
And mocks
The Age of Reason