Grim (not the big poem mentioned earlier )

when I say “grim”
I mean this day feels like

a last fencepost,
gray and gnawed by wind and sun,
its surface the color of granite
but easily dented by a fingernail,
strands of barbed wire rusted fragile
to its surface, and no fellow posts
anywhere around as it stands in the weather
trying to recall what it used to contain,
and when it falls there will be
a hole that fills in quickly
so that no one will know it was there
until some archaeologist comes by years from now
and uncovers something that explains something else
and the scientist will say

there was a fencepost here that stood a long time
and fell long after its purpose was fulfilled.