This year deserves no fond farewell.
It will not be afforded nostalgic glances through the rear vision mirror.
In a rush to the finish at the final straight,
painstakingly wrapped parcels of old garbage will be cast off ceremonially
and relegated to browning spots of memory on an old kitchen calendar.
At the coming together of hands on clocks, fireworks will sound.
A speculative burst of optimism will depress accelerator pedals,
and an unseemly launch into a new arbitrary time zone will commence.
Once the line is crossed and the smoke has cleared,
a palpable discomfort will set in
as the realisation hits
that not all those brittle eggs in the basket of new year restoration
have played the game of clock watching.