The Date Doesn’t Matter

Here in the diner people are still partying.
Coming after parties at home or away,
guzzling mimosas with all the enthusiasm
of coeds and teens on their first bender.

It’s fun to watch.

The Chinese have one.
The Jews have one.
Both have been at it far longer than us,
than ours. New Years. A change to begin again.

An artificial date. Plucked from the sky.
Nothing special about it
but embued with powers
to begin again. to fix the wrongs.

A clean slate. We crave it. Need it.
Cling to it in our faiths.
Always, always beginning again.
Why?

Why indeed? We are hopelessly human.
We stray like sheep.
We are distracted like two year olds.
Angered like teens.

We, many of us have been beaten,
sliced and diced. Left for dead,
waiting for the Samaritan that never comes.
Broken, in need of ressurections,

Waiting for a new year.
And here it is. The internet full
of advice how to make it the best,
what do to, what not to do.

How to be one of the chosen few
whose resolutions last the month.
All nice and neat, in 750 word or less,
complete with a thirst trap of a picture

to mark the day,

But the thing is, the day doesn’t matter.
It’s as artificial as ours, or the Chinese, or the Jews,
a marker in space. Arbitrary. A place chosen
and run with, as it if matters.

The day does not matter.
Every day is a resurrection we choose
or don’t. So raise your mimosa, your coffee.
Toast yourself. Make it the day,

or don’t.
There’s always tomorrow.

About this poem

There really is a group of young women eating their French Toast with mimosas at my favorite diner this morning. It looks like a scene from “The Bridesmaids”.

This was going to be an essay, but I felt playful and made it a poem. It probably is not as good as a poem, but it was a lot more fun to write,

Happy New Year!

Tom