all the blame in your
days November, but
when I recount the years
passed you always stank
and not just of dead leaves
or a relative who dwindled.
I am a man of visible faults
I have played with life and
sometimes lost, we always
lose in the end but why are
you always there when I fail
November, outside the doors
that slam on gaunt winter nights.
I didn’t notice you at first, November,
I knew you were not kind but
just last night on the thirtieth of you
as I walked bleak dead leaf paths
I made successive calculations and
noted your consistent inconsideration
for all the things I grew to be fond with.
Goodbye November, you
foul collection of brindled nights.