Ian Pike noon, Dec. 8
- Terence Winch
Annual Report (for Doug Lang)
A poem by Terence Winch
- I hate this entire year, the way it stops
- and starts, dries you out, soaks you, lulls you
- to sleep, then wakes you up in a cold sweat.
- Not to mention the pills that are required
- just to get through it. I’m on Tylenol
- with codeine at this very moment.
- It sees to it that the bills keep coming,
- marked by obvious deceit. The dentist we despise
- who keeps overcharging us, for example.
- It is so objectionable, so unfair.
- Where are the free lunches of yesteryear,
- the Martinis, Manhattans, highballs
- on the hotel terrace overlooking the magic
- domes of the glittering city?
- It was not like this in 1982, I can tell you that.
- 1982 let you smoke all the True Blues you wanted.
- It said, go ahead — have fun! Eat giant hamburgers,
- huge slices of cake, big platefuls of French fries.
- Fuck all night, sleep late, call in sick. It told you
- you had to listen to Van Morrison singing
- “Cypress Avenue” over and over, all night long
- till there was nothing left of it to inhale.