Resolution

The new year blurs the windowpane.
Soho surrenders to the rain
as clouds break over Chinatown.
See how the storm's resolve winds down?
Its steel pins thin and mist away.
Get up, Come here and see the day.

Through this droplet's contact lens,
the West End and the future tense
look dainty, vacant, and convex.
We haven't seen such weather since
the morning they invented sex.
And yet, baptized, by rain and gin,
of last year's unoriginal sins
of inattention and cliché,
this looks like every other day
that we will never see again.

Courage. Coffee. Aspirins.
Our window on the world begins
to dry, the breakfast bulletins
appall, the civil voices lie,
our private garden cloud with doubt.
So let me make this crystal clear:
the rain has stopped. Your taxi's here.
The New Year bells will ring you out.