On this, the first day of the newest year,
like baggage never lost, another missed
performance.  It follows me around here -
that stench of last week, of procrasti-
nation, the falling off of lines, flip charts,
of disappointed agendas, valets,
cabbies, elevator riders.  An art,
they say, of keeping up with yesterdays.
May auld remembrance be forgot, never
brought to mind and all the things I should have
done not be posted online.  Whatever.
Even undone is some done.  A weak salve
for the guilty is still a band-aid fix
stopping the sound of the clock’s blasted ticks.