I keep clicking the pen

I keep clicking the pen

over the empty squares,

and the sound is like small doors

closing, or maybe opening.

Next month. All of it blank.

I could write something—

dentist, call home, finish the book

that's been sitting on my nightstand

since March—but the ballpoint

hovers and hovers,

and the page stays honest.

My therapist (back when I had one)

said I was avoiding.

I said I was being realistic.

We both had a point.

The pen clicks again.

I'm not going to mark anything.

I'm going to let these squares

stay clean, stay empty,

stay exactly like my schedule,

my inbox, my answering machine—

full of room for things

that will never come.

Click.

The pen stills.