When I don’t work (e.g., this week)
My calendar begins to leak
And erstwhile “workdays” that I’d dread
In normal weeks are lost or shed.
I know it’s Tuesday now (I checked);
It’s over, though, when I’d expect
An endless, un-fun Monday first,
Not both at once, in one big burst
Of truancy. When Wednesday shows
Will I have time to gloat? Who knows?
At this accelerated rate
T.G.I.F will come too late–
Acronymize my Saturday.
Vacation’s just one week, though. Whew!
It’s fortunate I take so few.
Autumnal equinoxes come along
In late September each and every year.
The timing on tomorrow’s, though, feels wrong.
We’re long past summer. Shouldn’t Fall be here?
The kids are back in school, the network shows
Are filling up my DVR again,
There’s pumpkin spice in everything, and those
Who follow baseball think the Cubs could win!
Perhaps if only one of those were true
It might could still be summer. But to say
That all of them are real–or even two—
Means Hallowe’en’s at most a week away.
I won’t get mad. Instead, like day and night,
I’ll just get even. Come on, Fall, let’s fight!
Remember when we shared the joy
Of Monday on a Tuesday? Boy,
Was that just last week? Seems much longer,
Though today it got much wronger:
It’s a five-day week, without
A Monday holiday. (Don’t pout,
At least the day that you were born
Is still your own; poor George was shorn
Of his, which should have been today
And not last Monday.) Anyway,
The George/Abe Mashup last week meant
The Tuesday slot’s where Monday went
‘Cause every workweek needs a goat
On which to scape; Tue. won the vote.
But that’s okay, it balances
(If cals. are where your talents is)
A Montag, Maandag, lunedì—
Is February 22nd:
Two/Two-two (or, if it’s reckoned
In the European fashion
Two-two/Two). You write the slashin’
Anywhere that works for you,
The point’s the date: It’s 222!
It’s Twosday on Monday! And
Two-morrow, Tuesday Two is planned!
Monday lovers, don’t be blue–
That full moon’s shining just for you,
But Tuesday Groupies, live the dream!
For just this week, your day’s supreme.
My cat and I aren’t locked into
This resolution trap that you
And all too many focus on.
So what if twelve more months have gone
The way of all things (“dusty death’s”
The phrase that springs to mind)? Your breath’s
As pungent as it was before.
To increment a number or
To change the photograph atop
Your calendar won’t make it stop
Offending folk, and if my cat
And I support your goals, will that
Empower you to change your ways?
The new year comes, the old you stays.
My cat and I will still be here
Exactly as we are next year,
No better and no worse than we
Are right this moment. Wait and see.
If self-improvement does occur
Despite our lassitude, be sure
That we are not the ones to blame:
We really tried to stay the same.
No resolutions have we sworn
And those who swear them earn our scorn
And enmity. When this year ends,
If you’re still you, we’ll still be friends.
The status of my cat–and mine–
Will still be quo, and that’s just fine.
‘Twas the Fourth of June
‘Twasn’t Independence Day
‘Twas a month away
As mirrors propped along a peak
Transform the dawn to setting sun
So every date this mid-May week
Reflects the way it’s just begun
It doesn’t work across the sea
Where D/M/Y’s the date-form rule
But as my Grandmama taught me
With M/D/Y it’s pretty cool
A democratic calendar
That bends to the majority
Would say today is March the First
But I’m a gambler. You know me,
The backer of the underdog,
The striver against odds and might,
So I say, it’s still February!
(Four-to-one; I hope I’m right.)