Calendar’s Last Page

 

1.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

r h p   h o m e

 

 

T o d d   M e r c e r


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