January bucks
From inconstant rain
To divorced, dutiful quiescence;
It’s just in her nature.
She’s a performer, but finishes
Before her act is through
And abandons us for a day
To burn a stinky French cigarette
In Pittsburg.

That day is prospect:
Then I can stop visiting
My grandmother’s grave,
For in the warmth
Of the past morning

I’ve forgotten that
The cold had killed her;
I can burn my stinky
Indian cigar
behind my house
And relearn satisfaction.

I’ll die in some January.
I’m always done
Before she’s past.