Out go the parties, blackouts and decorations
after one too many mornings of confusion
waking up in a bed full of glitter and regret.
As the first day back appears drastically
like you’re a Sim, picked up and dropped in
you wonder where that year went and begin.
You begin the first weekend deep clean of a flat
more accustomed to Twiglet drum crumbs and dust
than the sound of a neglected vacuum cleaner.
Begin the notepad list of all the amazing tasks
from new recipes, language, clothes and looks
to personal bests, body shapes and routine.
Begin weekend trips to furniture stores
bickering over fabric choices and cushions
and rearranging the TV for the thirteenth time.
This is all whilst telling anyone who’ll listen
how many things you’re not watching, reading,
drinking – and how pure you’re feeling for it.
You’re even back writing out your thoughts
because it’s so amazing just being you
and going clear of the drink’s thick fog.
Waking up not wondering what was said,
tracing the events by pending bank charges
or messages and videos best deleted.
Why stop here? You think, as the end nears.
You’ve made a ninth of the usual trips recycling
bottle after box of beers and wine.
Yes, boxes of wine. There had been no limits
to the need to get back on it and be rid
of anxiety’s fierce, far out morning rush.
But that is all in the past and you’re done
with the coasting from bar to bar, mindlessly
washing down more pizza all year.
This year’s going to be different,
aside from the three trips to Europe
plotted into the diary on a rainy, sober day.
From the cluster of scribbles DISPATCH19