What Day Is It?

Deep underground, I am out of touch.

What day this is I do not know
for I am sheltered like a mole;
deep down below the ground, san light
not knowing if it’s day or night.

Without a clock no time is known,
and I am minus a smart phone
to make a call to friend or kin
to carp about the state I’m in.

I feel the lanced cold weight of Earth
above me in this silty berth.
Abed am I deep down below;
an old red lantern’s feeble glow.

In self-exiled getaway
I think about the present day.
Yet I’ve no calendar to eye
nor even patch of star-filled sky.

I let the muse maintain my thought
in this dug-out below ground spot.
I’ve rations for a time or two,
and large print books to see me through.

Yet I confess I can’t begin
to know the day that I am in.
My mind continues roundabout:
climb up from under to find out!


24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
5-3-20