The Grid

The hardware store gave it away for free,

a glossy tribute to hammers and pine.

I flipped the page for the month to be

and found a long, white, empty line.

Thirty-one boxes without a name,

no dentist appointment or dinner at eight.

The metal spiral reflects the flame

of the kitchen bulb, cold and straight.

It’s a quiet sort of violence, I think,

to see the weeks laid out so bare.

Just the paper and the drying ink

and a Monday that doesn't care.