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.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: August 25th, 2026 06:53
- Comment from author about the poem: All of my books are available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Thomas-W.-Case/author/B0CL2RKDGX?ref=sr Here's a link to my YouTube channel where I post poetry readings and my attempts at golf: https://www.youtube.com/@ThomasWCase
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Comments3
Really well written and very true. A fave
so very true, much enjoyed
So true it is there are endless dates in front of us and although we focus on the present there is the future behind it. Nicely written as always Thomas there is a feel of somehow being small it the scope of things and where is meaning in all this. The last line seems to give it and it is dark.
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