My daily Dilbert calendar's exposed
one comic at a time—a superstitious
maxim, as though I'll keep tomorrow closed
or tossed, depending. Even surreptitious
look-sees would get us busted. Underneath
the paper, futures idle smooth, their inked
prognosis promising to not bequeath
us prophecy ahead of schedule. Synced
with Dilbert, my mass-market horoscope
comes crashing down when someone flips ahead.
In quantum terms, I'm screwed—my future rope
is long enough to loop my present head,
a cartoon lynching based on someone's too-
soon desecration of my points of view.
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