JN.1 / Jd: 0 [A Letter To Baby New Year]

Covid in Our Christmas Stockings was not the name of a new holiday movie, but instead the elevator pitch plot of my actual life this week.Exchanging yuletide pleasantries for “Hark! The Herald Angels Sneeze!” has left me weak,  my head still spinning……thus this brief poem, for year’s beginning.Dear Baby New Year,you can’t read this yetyou’re just an infant butI worked outyou must ageat leasta quarter-year a day,which is the reasonthough I’ve thought to writeI never did.I knew that until March 15th or soyou were a kidso why send youa boring noteabout my mid-life health?you don’t need that.you’re young;won’t be my age til… August 12th.but maybe August 13thyou can drop me a quick line?let me know how September looks?and if October’s fine?I understand all we are guaranteedis to get olderwe start out babesand rockettowards our primethen seem to gain momentumrolling reckless as a boulderjust like you arekind of… bundled up in time. what lies ahead? your walking stick.we can’t deny that fact, butif you don’t mind,I think we’ll just keep wearing your top hat.amazing it still fits, I know.It brings a sense of styleto innocence, experience,to wisdom, bravery, guile…It kind of goes with everything.so when I get that chanceto have your canebe fairly warned,I’m using it to dance. Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe