I hung a new calendar
on the kitchen wall,
right below the big round
smiling clock,
like I had done
a thousand times before.
January looked fresh.
Clean squares.
A snowy field.
Twelve months
waiting to happen.
Now I’m looking at August,
a herd of cattle staring back
at me. They look surprised too,
wondering how the hell
we got here.
I swear
I just turned the page.
Sunsets twist into midnight.
Monday becomes Friday.
Friday becomes October.
Weeks pile up
like discarded journals.
Then one morning
you realize
the calendar behind the calendar
is waiting.
Another year
already printed.
And you haven’t even
finished this one.
Maybe that’s why
I pay more attention now.
To the coffee cooling
on my desk.
The sound of the driver
smashing the ball off
the tee.
A cat sleeping
at the foot of my bed,
drunk on feline dreams.
The last light
slipping out of the window.
Because I know
what happens next.
The sun goes down.
The clock moves.
Another day disappears.
And we fly onward
like a murder of crows.
Powerfully penned, Thomas. Another excellent write with great storytelling full of clever lines my friend. Amazing read as always. Appreciate you.
Damian
This is so tremendously APT, Thomas, to the times flying by, turning over in our minds, our hearts, killing the world, rising hypocrisy – all of that! You’re poetry, all of it’s just so APT, and you make me glad for you that it is! Never change, Harriet-Jacqui xx