blues for Janus

by Jack T. Marlowe

a bare bulb
lends its im-
poverished
light to the
work of

ragged
hands on
the grave-
yard shift
mostly
avoiding
the shift
key, they

type an
epitaph
for yet
another
year
that has
passed

the usual
medley of
nods and
curses
sepa-
rated by
sighs
in lieu of
commas

a paper to
file away
and a new
year to
face, they

pop the
cork of
another
bottle
pouring
just
enough

a new
glass
half full
of mis-
givings