Dry January

-

Grey skies

and a wolf moon

usher in a new calendar

to a world in marked

disarray

and my shuddering

hormonal shift.

-

That space

that chasm

that abyss

we each have

always so easily

filled

buried

choked;

by food

delectable morsels

of which my cabinets are

stocked

chock full;

by booze

a gauze of single malt

draped over my twenties

and

the browning edges

of mid-age

awash in old wine;

and by pot

dope

good sativa ganja

grown under the CA sun

elevating me to myself.

-

But fifty-plus struck hard

tired

cranky forgetful

hollowed out

emotionally raw

menopausal.

None of my old tricks

habits

junkie distractions

are filling the void,

my tolerance built up

filled up

topped up

covered up

and paved over.