TWELVE

’85 lipstick on
’86 lips,
Kissing through the years
As the clock strikes twelve.
A New Year revolution:
No swearing,
Or rowing,
No flagrant
Kowtowing,
Or bended knee
Bowing,
Or looking at beautiful women
Who aren’t you,
For even though they may catch my eye
That’s as far as I’ll rely on nature,
Or be prey to its features,
Or dress it up in a hobby’s sunglasses,
Because you are my lass
And from now until the end of time’s passage
You will be.