The Calendar
The Calendar
A calendar hangs on the wall.
A clock beside the bed.
Another day is about to dawn,
But all my world feels dead.
With pen in hand I cross the date,
We’re one day closer now.
I check the clock lest I be late.
‘Tis the working hour.
These two things now govern my life.
Inanimate objects though they be.
They keep me from my loving wife,
But slowly set me free.
Copyright © Les Pick | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment