It's not true that April enrages me.
I reserve my violent emotions for March,
that drunken bastard who stays too long,
and spews sloppy snow all over my shoes,
and slushes himself all over my lawn.
No, by the time April arrives,
I am done.
I am spent.
I'm too tired to shake my fist at an April sky.
March has worn me down,
softened me up,
so that by the time April comes round,
All he has to do is show me some tulips,
And just like that--
This was written in response to Big Tent Poetry's prompt that asked us to start a poem with "It's not true that..."