Check. Check.
Everyday, a square
in the calendar, a box
in which I make lists,
make an accounting
of the box itself,
some record of self,
some measurement,
some inked snapshot
meant to, what, stop time?
Today, I weighed
a certain amount,
I completed certain tasks,
I attended a number
of meetings. Today,
I wrote this poem.
And this calendar ticks
like a countdown toward
an unknowable box.
How many Saturdays left?
How many Christmas Eves
in my parents' home?
The calendar can only say,
Check. Check. Check.
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