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.
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