The felttip pen was far too thick for this

The felt-tip pen was far too thick for this.

I tried to cram the Tuesday into view,

but ink began to bleed and drift and miss

the tiny white-walled box it's meant for, too.

A dental cleaning overlaps the wake.

The funeral is scrawled in frantic blue.

I count the days and watch the paper break

beneath the pressure of the things to do.

It’s Sunday night. The grid is full of ink.

The black and jagged smudges start to blur.

I sit here at the table, on the brink

of forgetting who the hell I even were.