What A Year

January begins with
A six person smooch.

Faulkner reminds me

Of truth in February.

Bradley Cooper looks

To rent my prison cell
In March.

April dresses itself in

Floating dog head
Horizons.

May flowers

Don’t ever
Flower.

June tosses footballs

In dog shit backyards
And tells me
I should really
Pay attention.
 
July sparkles as usual,
But it’s hardly clean.

August requires
Gallons of Lysol.

September plays

Boy Meets World
On repeat,
But it never gets
Any funnier.

October is horrific

As it should be.

November fills me

With dead bird,
Tips me over
Empty.

December pulls

Love-me-nots
From obnoxiously
Bridal bouquets.

A year,

Car wrecks
Appear pleasant.