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.