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Calendar’s Last Page




Fever date-stamped Calendar’s way off Earth 


some time Friday evening.


Everyone was busy then; 


he didn’t even tell his friends he was under the weather,


or they would’ve come knocking,


rehashing town-painting days,


leaving him soup (which he doesn’t eat),


cancelling their movie plans


and sit-down meals out 


and the office midnight oil.


The coroner thinks he passed from life


watching sit-coms—at least more dignified than


checking out by auto-erotic misadventure,


but worse than nearly all the other ways.


You try finding the final light home


to a laugh track of captive souls,


as an off-screen producer jabs the playback tabs,


spastic, like Pavlov’s brainwashed dog.





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