It rained on New Year’s Day
lines like a quarrel of frowns across the glass;
a forecast for the year ahead from
the car we watched
a runner and his resolutions; fat
drops like tears
on his hot face.
Despite their midnight message of order and restrained
the tarot cards lay in array on the kitchen table like dead leaves
or last year’s record sleeves
dispersed among gluey islands of Prosecco
and breakfast Shreddies.
Little Nips shovelled and chewed,
pants down and thrilled by it all,
the new year, he said, a fart under the duvet.