One Hundred Days, or Memento Mori VIII

Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer

to our number 8—
another day

in the last month
of a depleted year—

I realize even tipped
on its side,

its resemblance
to infinity

is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.

Each time I pull out a calculator
I feel that disapproving
look outweigh your seductive
glint. It doesn’t add up—nothing

does since I discovered you
were gone to the numbers
bonfire beyond. And you’ve been monitoring
the flame for years. Where was I?

I never let you take me
to the Take No Heroes Hotel.
Now I’ve misplaced the directions
but can still prove

I haven’t lost my way. I remember
something about forgetting limits.
Let my lucky 8
get knocked down tonight.