we lived in a year without room to breathe

large pools of water sit in the ditch
as i walk my dog to the end of the driveway
last night’s rain still fresh in the mist

santa waves his wooden hand from across the street
and a car crawls by blasting jingle bells

he rolls his window down
the annoying holiday tune pouring out
into the warm, slick street
and asks, you think it’ll snow this christmas?

my dog takes a shit where the grass meets the asphalt
i look down the street
everyone’s lights faded from the morning sun
and i tell him that snow is just a pipe dream
we’ll have a cool season ahead

he said, something good has to come out
of a year gone bad

and i tell him we are all thirsty for a fresh start

Weasel is a degenerate author and The Dude of Weasel Press. He released a book of poetry, a warm place to self-destruct, in 2016. His short story collection, Jazz at the End of the Night was released in December of 2017. His website: http://www.poetweasel.com.

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