Men’s dull dreams.
A steel, silver shimmer in the driveway for the New Year; sweaty St. Stephen’s sales.
Mêlées of greed.
“A handbag, a handbag; my salvation for a handbag!”
We want for nothing and yet all we do is want.
We drip desire like a dive bar’s leaky urinals,
Shed selfishness along with our dry-dead epidermal cells and the moribund microflora of our gastrointestinal tract.
We had it all for a couple of days and when everything feels as hollow as the carved-out turkey’s carcass that rots in the rubbish, we ask ourselves philosophically what it was all about.
“‘Tis never worth it,” they say up town, eyeing your handbag as you eye theirs.
“Thank God it’s only once a year,” slobbering over the specs of the new car you’ll have under your arse on January 2.
And we tighten our belts for a spell, take the foot off the greed gas until at least St. Valentine’s.
While the ads offer to slim you down, tan you up and put a gleam on your teeth that would dazzle the risen Christ.
The kids’ presents; neglected and put aside, give new meaning to the word “disposable”,
And there’s more philosophy: “Why can’t they appreciate what they have?”
You hold the handbag you got in the sales over the bed and shake out the last few items of your “life”,
And you stuff it in on top of the dozens of others, thinking of hints to drop for Valentine’s Day.