May/June 2026
typed in a regular, Times New Roman
12-point font. It stares at me
from the sheet of paper.
I feel it throb,
the letters rhythmically beat,
like gongs drumming
the arrival of armed troops
for war,
or a carcass
which was a living body two years ago.
It was told its lifespan, and May/June 2026
seemed so far away then.
My head hurts.
The hour ends and blue blood
stains the page.
I close the papers,
sticking the coffin into its stapled folds.
No one will remember where it is buried,
what happened in its lives save a few memories,
why it was abandoned on a Monday morning
behind a 12-point font.
Where it came from, where it went after...
who was robed in the white shrouds:
the test-taker or the paper?