The new year arrives in a diaper,

But she looks about 40 years old.

Her lips are red and her fingertips

Are sharpened.

She's smoking a cold-hearted cigarette

And sits down in my favorite chair.

She crosses her long legs,

Exhales smelly smoke into my face

And asks, "What now?"

I'm trying to pick up the place

In the light of this unexpected company.

"You knew I was coming!" she chides.

"Well I wasn't exactly expecting you,"  I tell her.

"I thought I had the place baby proofed,

But I'm not sure what to hide from you,

Or where I can put it that's safe."

I become aware of a quiet knocking 

At my door.

Truth is there, trying to tell me something.

"I'm doing fine," I tell her.

And slam the door in her face.

"And I don't want any!"

But I'm a notorious liar

When it comes to my welfare 

And/or lack thereof.

I leave Truth there, still knocking,

To deal with Baby, the baby new year.

Now I'm even more distracted.

I want to scream at everyone 

To leave me alone,

In my fate, in my misery,

In my happiness, in my peace,

In my everyday walking around 

Talking to myself attempt at surviving.

But Truth is still knocking at the front door.

Maybe I'll slip out the back,

Walk down the street,

Have a glass of tea,

See my reflection in the panes

Of the store front windows

All decorated for Christmas,

And then I can pretend again

That everything is fine with me,

That there is a Santa, there is a god,

A future brighter than either Truth

Or Baby, the baby new year proposes,

That I can close my eyes

And no one can see me.

But when I woke this morning,

The only thing I wanted was an apple and some chocolates,

And to sleep, til the sun returns in spring.

-jenn