Years are tougher than you think.

Pugnacious muhfuhs packing twelve unruly
months up to the brink – while taking pundits’,
politicians’ and fanatics’ punches – uncomplainingly
sustaining bruises, black eyes, lumps, contusions –
blamed for everything that human beings do –
not to mention so-called “acts of God” – tsunamis,
global warming, killer flu. Lord help you if you

land in an unfashionable decade. 1962
was screwed till someone turned it into Mad Men.
Take Twenty-Ten: he took it on the chin:
no puny ancient Father Time, all done-in, bearded,
ninety-nine and in a pickle, carrying a sickle
in defeat as he limps out some last eternal door:
Twenty-Ten looks like an only slightly beat-up

forty-nine: he’d get into the ring for more
and do just fine. Luckily he doesn’t have to.
Midnight – one last long piss in the bathroom –
and he is outta here: gone to that big barroom
full of beer where he can spend whatever’s left
with friends – those other years who’ve cracked
the goofy mystery the rest of us call history.



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