The first day of a new year
cliché is the currency 
we traffic in
new pages are turned
expectations for whatever
lies ahead
exceedingly optimistic 
self-talk, public proclamations
personal plans for 
change, regeneration
renewal carries vague
expiration date 
mentally stamped at factory
warning us with certainty
like a gallon of milk 
‘hopes will curdle 
if not used by…’

Those with calendars 
still hanging from walls,
refrigerators
ripping last pages off 
year passed
like impatient moms 
tearing scuffed Band-Aids
from wounds that
just won’t heal
over our primal screams 
of protest
vehement transition 
to new from 
the chaos that was 
to new/same 
disorder that is
regardless 

Faux finality the backbeat 
perforated pages 
being ripped 
from their spiral bindings
crumpling of paper
running the last pages of 
year that was
through shredders
drowning out 
celebratory fireworks with
satisfying hum of 
symbolic destruction

All while exhaling deeply 
through our battered masks
sense of hope 
warranted as with other years
tempered this go around by
bitch-slap of now-reality

No more can we simply say 
what was, no longer is -
because it really ain't
‘new normal’ 
is neither of those things
nor are we
embarking on latest trip 
around the sun
already fried
with incalculable SPF
still…

We give it another whirl
like we always do
this year searching 
heavens and elsewhere
for fresh
in-tune-with-the-times
clichés we can really use.

- Mark Lucker
© 2021, 2025
https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B017LALIES