Every time I ask you
to go away
more and more even
to the point where I want you
deader than springtime
you,
you're
relentless like the winter
unforgiving like depression
that comes packaged in shining paper
and hopes held high for a better
and brighter future
that get dashed
every January when I see
broken toys on streetcorners
ordained by bits
of old tinsel, holding
out their plastic arms frozen
in the position
that says "want me."
Looking futile and feeling
worse I wipe my nose;
it's our Boxing Day.
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