Calendar Girl

I write prose, not poetry. But every million words or so, a phenomenon occurs, and I feel the need to express myself in verse. This poem can still use some polishing, but here it is in its mind-racing, can't-sleep, night-before-chemo state.

Calendar Girl

I’m a calendar girl –
The old fashioned kind.
My days are numbered
In neat little boxes
Parading across the page.

The boxes compete
For my attention.
Meetings, appointments,
Parties, dinner dates.
See how important I am?

The debris of my life
Spills into the boxes.
Double booking, triple booking,
Elbow to elbow
In crowded boxes.

When the doctor says
Let’s book you for chemo,
I answer, Let me check my calendar
For an empty box.
See how busy I am?

Chemo has five letters.
Strange. It won’t fit
Into any of my boxes.
I must erase
Meetings, appointments, dates.

One box every three weeks.
But I know the truth.
Chemo is a thief.
It will steal my energy
And encroach on all my boxes.

But without it
My days are numbered.
Now isn’t that ironic
For a calendar girl -
The old fashioned kind.