Floral Calendar

Bad taste is kind of comforting
Wrap yourself in lack of ambition
Stay in the same small carpeted room
Let that dull fluorescent light
Cast its grey pall over your 230am gorge
The calendar is curling and drying on the wall
The sun has bleached any color from the flowers of a month from which you cannot recall a single event

Smaller and smaller I go
No ambition will jolt me awake anymore
Don’t try again next month, next year
I’ll make a resolution at the beginning of the next life