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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Lost Day

They come, these holidays,
one after another,
commemorating everything,
observances, rituals, parades,
cards,
two a day,
three a day,
every day a holiday,
somewhere banners, flags,
but enough is enough.

I wish to celebrate the little day,
the lonely day,
the day I walk the streets
watching my shoes.
The day when nothing
passes my window.
The day my love refuses my lips,
goes away.
The day when no one calls
and my heart needs to hear,
to speak,
to linger with another voice.

It is that day,
at the bottom of the bag,
that’s been ignored,
the day the world forgot to shine,
to yell,
to bring rain.
The day tears dried
without fingers to find them.
It is that day I wish to establish
as the day no one wanted,
no one cared,
nothing happened,
except I noticed.

I opened myself to its loneliness
and praised it
for its wanting to be observed.
Its beautiful plainness,
its patience and gratitude,
like the bottom of a cup
waiting for something to hold,
to receive a toast, a libation.
Like a person whose life
has been ignored.
That day I will celebrate.
That person I will grasp and hug,
and laugh with,
and give them a day
no one wanted.

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