From The Thirty-First To The First Poem by Sonny Rainshine

From the thirty-first to the first,
the urge to reassess, to recalibrate
rises like the steam from hard cider,
and as we celebrate
the ushering in of another year.

This time we will strive
for equilibrium, staving off excess;
one slice of strawberry-rhubard pie,
not two. One glass of Pinot Noir,
not three. One obsession,
not a hundred thousand.

On the first we’ll ferret out
that old exercise bike
and swiffer off the cobwebs,
erecting the vile machine
in the center of our living room,
where it’ll stand menacingly
like a statue of Lenin
or Mussolini.

On the first we’ll open a savings account
and find that piggy-bank we set out to graze.
We’ll clean the shower every day—
maybe we’ll vacuum the lampshades.
Oh what frollicking fun!

But it’s still the thirty-first, not the first;
let us lay our heads down
for a little brief respite
and reserve our stamina for the coming day;
I feel a bit tired, don’t you?
Maybe we’re coming down with something.