Theft Of Days (Poetry)

I watch the numbers change
the calendar strikes off
those days I couldn’t use
its set of empty squares
a measure of what’s lost
I didn’t get to chose

how to spend that time
when sickness came along
and robbed me by the hour
of everything I’d planned
I’ve witnessed each small theft
the draining off of power.

Time’s pickpocket is sly
nerveless fingers find their mark
ply their trade awhile — move on ...
The sickbed victim fails to see
in dulled state of reverie
the full measure of what’s gone.