Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow
by Elise Dobrzynski
We wet-paste bristle teeth. We cover
the bed and clothe the body. We select:
cereal or egg or oatmeal, and we ingest.
We read morning news of immigration
and tariffs and celebrity recipes. We ready
ourselves for a day we will manage and a life
we will not yet, or maybe ever. We try to flee
our minds. We sidewalk traipse and wind
towards comfort, a house we know nearby
that reminds us of a home we once
called our own. We remember. We repress.
We catch fireflies between palms in retrospect.
We enter square collections of bricks. We pencil
notes and pen signatures in writing we somehow
claim. We wonder why we do not paint.
We plan vacations we cannot afford and plant
perennials instead. We stare at strangers and each other
and at nothing. We slouch. We smile. We porch-swing chat
and cinnamon tea. We impart ideas, offer sympathies. We pray
and we doubt. We fight sleep when rain falls. We hold
opinions and pans and the people we love, until they
have to leave. We promise we will call more often.
We splash water on the face. We settle into sheets
and uncertainties. We wonder who has never
seen the snow. We set with the sun.