Days glare at me, accuse me of bad memory.
They are right, I lose sight of days in the haze of hours.
A nose blunted by the grindstone, peering each morning
at the calendar on my kitchen wall.
Dates that mean everything. Hospitals, check-ups.
fees due, the to-do-list of living.
Etched in red and blue and sometimes
big black felt marker lest it goes unseen.
And days that mean nothing. Anniversaries, birthdays.
The day you died. The day he was born.
The list goes on, days when all I can do is turn away
pay no heed to the calendar on my kitchen wall.
~ Dave Kavanagh