It’s the End of the World Again
Calendars are tricky things
they habitually pull the wings
off our days and stuff them in
a nasty little cage.
Cages stacked four or five high
all cramped and crowded, side by side
assigned a number and divided
into different pages.
We cross them out and tick them off,
place cryptic notes within the blocks,
And watch them like slow moving clocks
where minutes move like hours
Admiring their reliability
we cede to them responsibility
to direct our brave futility
with their pedantic powers.
But calendars are simple drones
They have no power of their own
Even if they’re carved in stone
By enterprising Mayans.
So make your plans and don’t loose sleep
Just count, and do not join, the sheep
time is precious, talk is cheap,
tomorrow will be fine.