Public Republic

Leatha Kendrick

Photo: slingshots+meo remalante

A day at home, no big news. Alone,
with CNN and tea, stiff bones
of the Christmas tree, ravenous

for unsweet things. After the gush
of singing, unsought treats
and gifts, it’s time to pay. A rush

to Returns’ endless line. A fine
for late-mailed, past-due bills. It’s back
to ordinary time, days of sunshine

for its own sake. No decorations, fake
garlanded mirrors. Only the amaryllis
take their time to finish blooming. Sinners take

their sinning back full force. Alack
and gone the goodwill wishes, stacks
of dishes–all the lost days spent digesting,

laid about with games and resting.
It’s up and running back to work. Take in
the empty garbage bins, gone the heaps of trash,

crushed to nothing. The month-long bash
is done. Hooray. Let’s give away
the need to prove we love excess, hold fast

the ho-hum. Thankful that the fun
is over, celebrate the waxing sun,
the birds, the frost, mundane, a glory.