Open House

The spiral wire gives a little snap

as the month of April falls in my lap.

I turn the page to the coming May

and see the squares of a vacant day.

Thirty-one boxes, white and clean,

with no dentist visits or lunch in between.

No scribbled names or a dinner at eight,

just the glossy paper and the weight of the date.

It looks like a house with the curtains drawn,

or a street in the city just before dawn.

You’d think it was freedom, this lack of a plan,

but I’m looking for ink as fast as I can.