My bright focused third hour pupils

tell me a check marked box

is a visual representation of resolution.

Driving home I double take the sunset,

pausing momentarily at high speed,

caught in a whirlpool of January insight,

resolved to the littlest things.

My conscious self makes a check mark

similar to 137 times before in 54 years,

and my psyche shrugs, sad for the four senses

left forgotten on the drive.