I have a big wide sheet over my desk
Crisscrossed with squares
Divided by thin rows and thick columns
Each filled with a big bold number
In black and red; a day and a date
A Gregorian and a Panchaangam.
It gives me the comfort of movement
Of an uncluttered march forward,
Until we get to the end of the sheet.
Then it all suddenly cycles back to square one
In the dreaded circular reversal
Every hour. Every month. Every year,
Return. Retrace. Relive. Recount
Marking time in diligent unerring precision.
If only time was measured linearly
Coded like library books on unending ladder racks
Of hours and days, months and years
A forward drift with no end in sight;
Memory then might wear a different garb,
Have a different name; mean something else.
Instead we have this ceaseless switching on and off
Of a then and a now. Some real; some desired.
An on and an off. And, again.