Poem: April 10, 2018

One Hundred

A hund-o. A century. Three digits.
27.39% of the year and what have I learned?
That days follow days, that they stack
upon one another and grow tall
and echo and reverberate, page
becoming pages, images borrowed
from other days, and lined up,
sometimes like a chain gang, displayed
on the screen. I scroll past
page breaks, creating the illusion
of movement, animating my days,
and I am betrayed by the presence
of so much white space, surprised
to find that days that feel crowded
look so empty typed on a page.
But it seems that I remember that
these poems, first written in pen, grew
into the spaces made available
in various notebooks of various sizes
and various shapes, or on the backs
of notecards, and once on a Post-It,
every poem the size of its space,
every day written out to the edges.