They added another weekday and I
forgot. My wife wasn’t here this morning.
I checked the calendar—sure enough, by
some good luck someone remembered to mark
it, and what needs done is being done. My
wife’s at work. Tomorrow we’ll see the park.
Not till tomorrow. Already unnerved
by the neighborhood, I don’t want to walk.
Why another weekday? Have they observed
the sun slowing? But rapid afternoon
approaches. What dinners haven't I served?
If beyond it was hell itself delayed
I’d still regret an extra day. What’s past
is profitless; the future’s debt unpaid.
April 24, 2025. Written for National Poetry Writing Month. Edited July 20, 2025
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