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The Calendar



He doesn't look like that anymore.
She doesn't think like that anymore.
The tree is gone.  The fish is sick.
No one sings the old songs.  No one
remembers where the treasure was hidden.
What remains is smaller, dirtier, sad.
Everyone is looking to buy
rose-colored contacts.  The dead
are envied more than missed.
November, November,
the calendar has only one page left.
Shall we fill it with parties?  Shall we
remember spring and summer or let them
fade, embrace the change we've made?

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.