Calendar

The calendar is a falsehood.
It ought to be as spring in here
as it is outside but in here
winter is sticking around.

Looking out
at soggy old shit
that has been hidden
under the snow: see there

a little man,
a little fat man. Little old fat man
with broken eyes
and self-important whine

who has been stuck inside
for so long he can’t see green
at all. It might be coming but
he turns away and grabs

at the calendar
that he just knows
must be a falsehood.
Tears it down, tosses it

across the room at the 
recycling bin. March?
Give March to someone who
can use the mid-month hope.

Turns his back on the window,
his little old fat man back.
If he could see the incipient green
out there, he would be trying

to shout it back underground,
back to brown. There are 
more blizzards to come, he knows,
but not how long before they strike.