Prose Poem: Burning Calendars.

 

The Anti-Holiday Party swept into office this fall.

And since I was party chairperson, I got a

nice cozy sinecure.

My job was to collect all the old paper calendars

that had Halloween, Christmas, the Fourth of July,

and so on, noted on them, and incinerate them.

The bonfires were spectacular.

Some people watching them got carried away.

They threw their masks into the bonfires.

Then I had my men thrown them into the 

bonfire.

It all came about this way . . . 

No, I don't think I'll bother to explain it at all.

Why bother?

The facts of the matter are that we have no more holidays

of any kind -- national, religious, ethnic, or even silly like Ground Hog Day.

Every day is a work day.

There are no weekends.

Every day you get your temperature taken.

You have your mask inspected at a mask 

inspection station. 

You bring your six foot pole with you everywhere,

or face a thousand-dollar fine.

After all,

how are you to know if you are at least

six feet away from someone 

if you don't have a six foot pole 

with you? You're allowed to use a barge pole

if you're a citizen of Great Britain.

Birthday parties, too, are out.

So the new calendars are very sleek,

very plain affairs -- 

month names, day names, and numbers from 1 up to 31.

It's going to work like a charm.

 Excepting I don't think any of the big brains

took into account this is Leap Year yet . . .