It's always the same in January.

It's 4pm.
The sky is scattered grey,
you can barely tell where the gravel begins.

No train of thought,
no taxi to get in.
Empty faces changing but the expressions remain.

Recovering from last months expenses,
shop windows return to their honest selves
real prices for real goods.

An ice-y wind grips the populous,
wrapped up tight in coats and hats
more layers for daily indecency.

We revel on the new year,
but labor through the current.
Decembers novelty has worn off and we're back to square 1.

January - thank **** It's almost over