The Way Ray Lifts Days

Raymond had a mouth could print money, loud
as street repairs when you’re trying to sleep in,
bold as a new box of brass bolts. “No big thing
back then. I could lift 30 days. 30 damn days.

Pick ‘em up, move ‘em. That’s a month, man.”
Me? Three at my best! Now, each day happens
all over me. Stays right where it started. Dusk
same place as dawn. No one can pick up a day

unless they believe one inch matters. And when
you get this old, each day falls on top of you
in escalator dominoes. Where do I carry a day?
Even if I could get my fingers under it, in full squat,

back straight to lift it safely off the ground, where
do I take it does me any good or helps anyone?
Let’s be real. I can’t imagine someone lifts a week,
or Raymond once raised a day above his head—

shaking arms, burst apple face, spitting white sparks.
Then, a girl who worked for me in sales didn’t show up.
No answer on her home phone. Nothing at her mobile.
Lunch hour, I drove to her condo to knock on the door

or peek in her windows. She saw me, shoved her face
into the crack of the door pressed against the lock chain.
“Sorry” she said in Costco vodka and 7-11 cigarrettes.
Disappeared, then finally let me in, releasing the facts

of today all at once like she was pamphletting a town,
as I scrambled up some eggs and started Mr. Coffee.
Eventually, I took her to a Lowe’s to buy some paint
and get her bedroom the color she always wanted.

Raised that day right off of her! Know what I mean?
That bum of a boyfriend didn’t mean as much. Yes,
I could still lift a day! But tomorrow’s coming down.
Maybe I’ll call Ray. How’s a man to lift all his days?