It’s January and I’m Janus-faced,
Or nearly so—not one half looking back
And one ahead; one tardy, one in haste—
But one that’s over-eager, one that’s slack.
Half of my mug is frozen in a droup.
The other half still upwardly aspires.
The left side dourly pouts and dribbles soup.
The right expresses more elate desires.
Looking at me you doubtless feel confused,
Finding my attitude ambiguous,
Schizoid—“Is he despondent or enthused?”
I’m neither, though I seem incongruous.
What most of us keep inward shows in me:
I manifest your own duality.