January is the worst of it

January is the worst of it

Welded on to the back end

Of Christmas

Barely attached to the new year

By twelfth night

When it reels exhausted

From too much Champagne

In crystal flutes

Toasting the promise

Of a change that never

Seems to come

Too hot in the south

Too cold in the north

Too long everywhere

Stretched out forever

Looking for an end

That is presented in

A series of

Leftover stages

Many is the time

Families count pennies

Before bedtime

Everything looks bleak

In winter

The cold trumps picture book

Cottages

When water pipes freeze

And pinched noses peep out

From beneath frost covered

Blankets

There is little romance in ice

On the inside

Dreaming of summer

Is no different

As old men cower

Under the cover

Of makeshift shelters

No match for monsoon rains

Sleeping

In clothes still steaming

From the downpour

Too many people fall on hard times

North or south

Winter or summer

The long drift of January

Is pernicious

It takes no prisoners

People fall by the wayside

The weakest link

In a chain of fools

Slowing progress

As human traffic all but stops

Eventually

Stumbling

Into an oasis

Of February

Although,

Blink once

And you miss it.