For the Calendars

Each Thin Day

is All Brand New

Even if It’s Made with Cheap Ink

Printed on the Coarse Pages

toward the end of the year now here…not my photo…

Every Now and Then People Would Stop Working

Lift Their Heads to Look at Me

For Them

The Days Became, Nothing More than Repeated Colored Numbers

As a Calendar

I’d Needed to, Get Use to Goodbye

Practice, to Rip a Page Off My Self Daily

Time is Not an Accumulation

But of a Loss of Sorts

like this???  Not my picture…

The Countless Tomorrows Stood Waiting Behind Me

to Be, Disposed of

Only Rarely

Would Someone Stop

and Pick up the Days I’d Lost from the Trash

Smooth Over the Pages

and on the Pale Corners

Left Those Beautiful Lines Behind

There’s that sense of finality, of how knowing that everything is going to be lost, but still keeping going on strong, that, is the life of a calendar, a page at a time, the days got lost…