Calendrical Casino
Ten.
Ten years, I've been scared,
fearing the phone's ring.
Twenty.
Twenty years, I was,
learning how goodbye really felt.
Thirty.
Thirty years, I reached,
forty-four days ago.
Forty.
Forty, my brother was,
for fifty-seven days.
That's all he got...
and that feels like all for me.
I'm terrified, I'll admit.
Every knock on the door,
every surprise text or call,
every "hey" I wasn't expecting.
Each corner hides a death,
each day a loss on the table,
Russian Roulette be damned.
The calendar is loaded - play.
So don't call me strong.
I'm petrified, and I'll face the grief,
as I always have,
but I won't face you.
I'm running, without shame,
from contact, from laughter,
from making me feel.
My response, proudly, is to hide.
So call me what you will -
save strong.
That just reminds me -
that I have received no choice.
Thirty-three percent.
A third of my life -
looking over my shoulder.
Which do I run out of first -
fortitude, or friends?
The calendar is loaded...
no choice but to play.
Copyright ©
Andy Sprouse
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