Resolution Graveyard

It's the resolution graveyard for those good intentions, cursed, opening hours from New year's day to February first. Here's a pile of treadmills, dumbbells stacked up near the gate, abandoned by the desperate who promised to lose weight. The hungover who'd had enough, repenting for their sins have left wine bottles by the ton in bright blue wheelie bins. The smell of chocolate, biscuits, cake they permeate the air, left by those stood on bathroom scales who said life wasn't fair. Invisible unless up close, hidden by a yellow fug, the cigarettes thrown in the bin from smokers, feeling smug. The gravedigger, like Santa, only toils here once a year, and tirelessly he works his spade until all have disappeared. His shovel cleaned, oiled, put away and ready for next time when the graveyard gates squeak open wide upon the New year chimes. No mourners toss handfuls of dirt, no eyes are wiped in sorrow, since all of us are well aware the diet starts tomorrow.