The Grid

The receptionist’s voice was polite

in the way people are when they’ve already

marked you as a ghost.

Four o’clock. The hour came and went

while I was staring at a wall.

The calendar is a mess of crossed-out names,

ink bleeding into ink until Tuesday

is just a bruised, black smudge.

I tried to pack the days too tight.

The metal spiral of the binding

snags a thread on my sleeve.

I pull back, but the wire holds on,

unraveling the cuff as I try to turn the page

to another week of failing to arrive.