January
for Susan

The ashtrays need emptying
and the cat’s been sick.
The mice in the attic are giving out stink.
As we watch our breath drift
across the kitchen, central heating
is a luxury as distant as trays
of oysters at the Galway Races.
The year struggles to its feet,
like a lamb stranded in deep snow.
Strange then to think, this evening in Siberia,
that these are the good old days;
I, the unknown “poet and critic”,
you, the next F. Scott Fitzgerald,
up all night, putting the world to wrong;
writing new versions of old songs.