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Calendar’s Last Page




An omniscient narrator 


could zip between the fanned-out friends,


note their entertainments from the fly’s eye view,


contrast those diversions to


the last square Calendar marked off.


An omniscient narrator could’ve been a bigger help,


summoned paramedics, stuck close,


changed the poor man’s TV channel, 


sang a good Kaddish.


So though it changes nothing to know


who was chewing steak at the time,


who weighed a kiss to give or withhold


at the Gone With the Wind revival,


the living can’t help but hand-wring, aim blame,


they murmur their half-formed mea culpas, 


mortuary if-onlies with an impotent awe.


Calendar is off recycling; 


no one knew his mercury had spiked.





r h p   h o m e



T o d d   M e r c e r















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