Howard Firkin
Each week another youless month goes past.
Days spill, cornflakes and milk across the floor—
no more domestic mess than those before,
one in a series, never first or last—
the dog comes, licks my calendar away.
Each day a line is scratched into the stone,
and if those lines were lined up, end-to-end,
no gaps, no curves, omissions, kinks, no bend,
that line would stretch from here to on my own.
The dog will have its walk and start the day.
The heat of summer brings the smell of tar,
the last cicadas drilling through my head,
and memories of you: the way you are
is always now the way you were instead.
