It is finally
tomorrow;
I sit here and
wish for whiskey,
yearn for the silken solace
of yesterday, wonder
how I’ll face all these thousands
of tomorrows.
I finger
crisp black edges around my dreams
and wonder
why the widow’s weeds?
No one I love
has died;
I’ve spent my
stormtossed years
looking for mothers in the eyes
of comely strangers,
yet they are nomads,
always seeking deserts
to anoint with their nourishing floods
to build oases.
She was not some lover
telling me
our romance had flared and failed
growing my life out stones and weeds
was her work,
done nine to five
under contract;
I was only a thick blue file
weighing down her days.
Life continues
into this bleak tomorrow,
but we did some quality work-
I filled out forms into her ears,
lifting prayers to the gods of sustenance;
the answers now clutter my refrigerator
and kitchen cabinets.
In between,
I handed her
all my sorrows and secrets
my whole being;
she gave the whole mess back
packed in an ark of gold.
On that final yesterday,
we struggled through our fare-thee-well
words of sorrow, words of praise;
she sealed it with a quick embrace
and I thought
“she has never touched me
quite like this;
this hones the ache and sting.”
I wandered out of our life together
Into sharp sunlight
kicking drifts of crunchy leaves,
dreading tomorrow.
Tomorrow,
I’ll put on my suit and go to work,
look at the new one
with business eyes,
pray to more gods
with incantations
sealed in long white envelopes.
I’ll come home
wish for whiskey,
settle for water
and fondle
one year of history
adorned
with crisp black edges.
