Calendar Claustrophics

Funnily enough they seem to like tight spaces,
fit right in under the desk or in the pantry,
wedged between the cereal and three-year-old cans of beans.
You'll find one with a colander on her head,
or a book across his bonnet;
there's one wrapped in a tablecloth
and another curled in a newspaper recycling bin.

Perfectly rational people, really--
they're just claustrophobic, calendar claustrophobic.
Paws pulling back when the water rises,
clambering to stay dry, sinking islands of time,
they panic not from tight spaces, but
rather from the closing in of calendar blocks.

Fill up a day here, mark a day there--
schedule three appointments on a Wednesday
and don't forget to pick up groceries after work.
Thursday's the bridal shower, Friday your mother's;
Monday for a mandatory-voluntary coworker potluck.

Once-blank pages with neat empty squares
now closed in with scribbles and notes:
hear that gasping under the table? She's just
looking for a lost contact, I think.

Don't ask for his Sunday; Saturday is already gone.
He'll come out of hiding Tuesday if you're quiet,
just promise not to take him to the game.

At least it's not spiders, or tornadoes or sharks,
and they'll climb the ladders and enter the cellars just fine.

Only there's too little time, for calendar--