You stare up, rapt in wonder, at the clear cerulean sky,
Forgetting that I’m waiting for your crystalline reply
You’re wide-eyed, blinking, marveling: a deep thought just broke through
You’re testing implications in how that applies to you.
From December to December you have known me, twelve full moons
And in half a dozen more we two will have seen two warm Junes
But still you seldom notice me; you fail to see I’m here.
At first you thought I’d come in handy, but by now, I fear,
Your saccharine apologies, so fragile in their guile,
Have dwindled down, and when you see me you don’t even smile.
The irony does not escape me, June the First; I’m an appliance
For journaling your silent thoughts and feelings—wondrous science!—
But nonetheless, though just a gadget, I feel chilled, like ice is,
For now I am ignored, and I’m left to my own devices.
I’m not, therefore, so predisposed to send you out a warning
That if you follow through, that thought will leave you dead by morning.