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POEM IN WHICH I LOSE TRACK OF TIME

Denise Duhamel | Poetry

First gone is the year I was born—was in 1961
or 1691? My analog clock melts, Dalí-style,
and my calendar pages fold themselves into origami.
I show up to the dentist on Christmas and baste
a turkey on the 4th of July. What’s in style?
Should I wear my go-go boots or Uggs?
My pillbox hat or disco rainbow wig? I’m awake all night
and yawn at dawn. I take a train that rolls over
a penny, then all my IRAs. I’ll never retire now—
not to bed and not to my grave. Even when I lose
my breath, I’m gaining days.