Happy (blank) Day

We dance around, uncertain,
the calendar our stage;
our steps a heavy curtain
drawn across the diary page.

It is sweet,

It seems a march, at times,
an unforgiving tramp of feet
as the louring clock chimes;
it is our tune, our clumsy beat

It keeps me safe,

Yet again we part, and I,
I count the pages and turn the days
as the crimes go waltzing by
in a display designed to daze

And I am sick,

We draw close now, my father
as another (blank) day has come
Now my step goes here, while you step farther
and shortly after, we are done

So I am seen,
and spoken to
and spoken of
and you leave me

…but I am secure.