The Futility of Last Words

Fresh snow is sort of a lost cause
when you're 42,
while the boxed Christmas lights from last year
are listless as a one-sided armistice,
where the hand of god
replaced by middle-aged fingers
that stink of credit card debt,

and the safe silence behind a window
reminds one of the futility
of last words in a world,
where midnight fireworks surrender to snoring,
until another New Year's resolution diet
helps you forget there was ever a war.