Not even a month into the year
Disconnect is salient.
I have not seen
The Traitor
Love Island
Or The New Gladiators.
I do not know what I would look like as a hippie.
I know nothing about Mrs Bates v The Postman
Or even if it was Mr or Mrs come to think of it?
Or the Call the Midwife which made ‘everyone’ cry.
I do not know what I would look like as a Viking.
And I am late-January-shop-walking
Recoiling at the packaged declarations of produced for profit “love”
Wondering if I’ll find snowdrops for Imbolc.
I have not used ChatGTP to ‘write a poem about’
Nor made a ruck of resolutions to break.
It is not the end of January:
There haven’t even been celebrity deaths
To not be devastated by yet.
And yet here I am.
Here, and yet somehow not here.