Who would be an icon in 2016

when Time suggests you have had your Time

upon this Earth, making people

laugh, sing, think and knowing

they have had some privilege of sparkling

nobility shine in their lives,

for it turns out that 2016 was just a murdering

git in heavy disguise as a year,

the black mask covering the demonic glee

of celebrity assassination as the poor,

genuine 2016 is locked in a basement somewhere

in Munich, no access to the news

and only given bowls of water

and a box of matches to use to scare

away the rats

on a daily basis,

it has no idea in its dark Hell

that the day it was captured,

carrying its welcome to the New Year banner

in its hands, that when it was jumped upon

on the side street in down town Auckland

after one too many welcome shots

and the odd congratulatory cigar

that it was to be seen the following day

making lists and checking them twice

over steaming cups of coffee

and sharpening its scythe

and synchronising its Rolex,

Death found a way to act bad after all,

a shame that 2016 will be the one

to take the blame.

Ian D. Hall 2016