A Year's-End Poem By Bruce Morton

We cringe at the celebratory binge when

We are compelled drink and think, once again,

Of peace. It is a time of resolution absent

Resolve. The idea of peace consumes us

Morsels of strife starve us--piecemeal.

One bite, one swallow at a time. We cannot

Stop. A dream or taste of truce, of salad days,

Of no desserts, just one course after another.

There is no waiter, only self-service, a buffet

Of gluttony. It is a repast, an annual feast

Of indulgence. Desire and guilt feed off, and

On, each other, as do we. We lack the discipline

To govern our appetites. We gorge on hope

Until we vomit and toast another year.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona.