Gregorian

by Michael B. Tager

The days are crossed off
with pen slashes

Some blue, some red
a few X’s with a purple ballpoint

The countdown began
before you left

but it continues in your absense.

I assume
(please, correct me if I’m wrong, please)
it will not stop
until the snows melt
and the birds chirp
once more
outside our bedroom window.

Best case scenario.

The calendar is full of empty pages;
numbers mocking coldly
with their bold lines
and pictures of cats
in stupid outfits.

The pens are arranged symmetrically
because you'd like that.
Does that help?

The rain drops

On my exposed skull
where I wait, unmoving
A day’s distance, a momentary lull
Skies remained dark, uncaring
Upon this hilltop, an empty hull

by Michael B. Tager