one without neatly plotted squares of dates;
No month as header, nor year to track
Blanks on paper, unwritten appointments;
Untallied time spent on scheduled tasks
We live in flux, in vague hand gestures
And inside each head a lifetime lives
In a single inhale of wintry cold, the emptiness of its smell,
I recall mortuary calls and one-person beds;
No other person knows these secrets of December.
