Short Month

The notebook is open on the kitchen chair.

Three pages of frantic, slanted ink

where I promised to be a different person.

The gym bag is buried under the coats,

a heavy lump of nylon and good intentions.

It’s 11 PM and the air is biting.

I’m at the counter for a pack of the blues,

shuffling through the slush in the parking lot.

The resolution was a thin, glass thing

that couldn't survive the first real frost.

I watch the smoke rise in a grey trail,

unfolding into the cold night air.

February is a short month,

but it’s long enough to give up.