So, this is the morning

in February’s malaise.

Doesn’t this kind of thing

normally wait for summer?

The beleaguered cadence,

the mild hostility

that breeds indifference

and malice.

Oh, how I have missed you,

my cunning rabbit warren

of reason

and hatred

and vanity.

The world is so boring,

so righteous,

so indignant,

without your swanky bitchiness.

Oh, February;

I long to see you go,

so I might make a pass

at your brighter, longer sister,

who dresses in lighter clothes

and doesn’t constantly remind us

that we gave up our resolutions

2 weeks ago.

No one cares

that you don’t get a birthday every year.

You’re an adult,

buy your own balloons.

As many as you want.



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