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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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