PoetryView
By Sam Pierstorff
Dear New Year,
Forgive me, for I have sinned.
It’s been one year since my last resolution,
but still I keep making them and breaking them.
No more chocolate in 2014 lasted six days.
The no-gossip New Year of 2013 died
the day after we partied all night,
and my colleague woke up with another woman.
I had to tell his wife, ruining her New Year
and mine—like slicing the wrists on the hands of time.
But here I am again, on the edge of another New Year,
looking down into the canyon of my life,
wondering what’s left to give up.
Maybe carbs? Maybe wine? Maybe my ego,
let it deflate to the size of a child’s party balloon
instead of the Hidenburg my wife says it is?
Or maybe I give up nothing.
Maybe I just give—give my time to the old woman
across the street whose husband past away.
Her lawn needs mowing. Her heart needs mending—
give a ride to the student who uses his textbook
as an umbrella as he runs down College Ave. in the rain—
give a moment to listen to the other side,
the voices from streets I’ve never dared cross.
This year I won’t promise the world to anyone.
I will simply give back to it.
And that’s a promise
I will never give up.
