Brian Fink invited an all-star lineup of poets to end 2020 with a little “poetry salvo.” By a slip of the thumb, he included me on the list. This was my entry.
The masses do not mourn the passing year.
As if a calendar could circumscribe
their suffering, they celebrate and cheer
this orbit’s end (and heavily imbibe).
Our planet now returns to take its place
by Two-Faced Janus (though I’m told that’s wrong—
it’s savage Juno’s month. Her only face
is cruel and unappeased by drink or song).
Like Sisyphus’s boulder, we spin back
to where we started, only to begin
our plodding pace around our starry track,
until we make our homeward turn again,
those lesser gods, each time- and season-bound,
mere passengers with us on this great round.