New Year She’s done with me, that’s what she said— it started great, but now it’s dead; statistics say it’s commonplace— so trite but true, she needs her space; it’s pointless asking one more chance— the outcome’s destined in advance; there is a certain time that spans and then she’s free to change her plans.   I take a walk, under-consoled— it’s January and it’s cold; the biggest houses on the street have Christmas trees, now obsolete; one day they are embellished and, placed center stage, tall in a stand; the next week, they’re in the driveway— awaiting the…