Does it feel like the promise
of something new? Yesterday stale in your mouth,
morning breath of car bombs and platitudes.
But the world is still
dying: another inch of snow and another inch
of waistline. And you thought you could leave
this behind because you tore a calendar
off your wall, because you were brave enough
to look at a phone number
and press delete. Step outside. Step on
the scales. Do butterflies own this world?
Is that a new face you see in the microwave door?
This is the season of the two-faced god.
Don’t believe his promises. Don’t
let him palm your dreams
like a trick coin.