An unsatisfying telling of my complicated relationship with tomorrow (a poem)

A late entry, rescued from a much longer, wildly disjointed effort…

I have a lot to say after the third beer

Words come pouring out
onto my screen
and into the pages of my notebook

Unfiltered after too long holding things back
I muse about the shapes of my letters
the temperature of my forearm against my brow
and the feeling
and the emptiness
leading to the inevitable confession
to someone I haven’t seen in years

In the morning
I’m back to my senses
glad that my outbursts are witnessed
by nobody but myself
and that pen, paper, and keyboard
are always nearby

I turn my attention to matters of the day

The dream from last night
that lingered so strongly in the morning drowsiness
leaves only a trace
and the memory of a kiss given and accepted—
but not returned

Dreams are not for my satisfaction

They may be entertaining
but no more than a page or two
from a diary of pure fiction

I remember the junkyard or the bus stop
the way I remember two moons in the evening sky
or falling in love at the most improbable moment

Life is full of improbable moments

Not paying attention to probability
I miss most of them
noticing only the ones that work against me

Tomorrow makes me wonder—
it’s always about tomorrow

I have to sleep
but I can’t stop thinking
about tomorrow—
tomorrow thirty years ago
next week, next month, next year

I might have an easier time
given a few words of reassurance
but those never come… until tomorrow

And tomorrow and I
are often not on speaking terms
merely tolerating each other
instead of getting along

I have to appreciate the early hours
on my own (coffee optional)

Until I’ve eased into the afternoon
I don’t have much to say

(16 June 2018)