One-Sixth the Year

It’s February first.
And I still wrote January
at the top of the journal page.
Crossed out and remade into the right days
it’s not January anymore.
But it is the day Tom Brady retired—
for real this time.
The day thirteen away from love
when business coax you into chocolate hearts
and naked babies shoot candied arrows
into your starry-eyed ass.
The month with an offbeat amount of days
and one year in four is bumped up to twenty-nine.
But this year’s not that year.
This year’s twenty-eight and still strange enough
when the Olympics and Super Bowl land
in the same weekend
in February
two-thousand-twenty-second year of our lord.
So I’ve always thought it out of place
that February should have
an R after B
so it’s said “ruary”
But that’s the month
with curious days and letters
In the month of February.

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