February
February,
a short, dull month
always over
before its begun.
It is the middle child,
mostly ignored,
never spoilt
or fussed over
or the ghost train
we see
from the platform
where we wait.
It chugs through
real slow
but nonetheless
we miss its name.
February is my sister,
how I feel
when ignored in queues
these days,
overlooked
for younger models
with smooth faces
and golden tans.
Feburary is a firework
made damp by
the mists
in winter.
It fails to ignite
every year
but is always
close to pay day.
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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