Tomorrow

"Blood always runs to the roots,

But it's the little deaths you choose"

Those words slowly found a place in his bed,

Sleeping in the recesses of his head

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow mother will look on my picture,

Without the tears of lost time,

And sudden agony from the piercing stitches.

Father left these straw dogs,

Hanging on the mantelpiece.

Saying, "Son, if you were, you would be me."

But how could he?

Tomorrow.  Was just an excuse.

An excuse to look the other way,

At the man across the street,

The well dressed neighbor in Apartment B,

His only of seven years.

But he knew,

Tomorrow would never fit the imagined cosmos

Of an identity buried away.

In boxes of winter clothes,

Stacked on top of Hustler magazines and Ginsberg prose.

The neon crosses and billboard promises

Weaved their way through the needle of his consciousness.

Pulling this way. No, that.

Saying you here, and you're never coming back.

Dresses, eyeliner, jerseys and flannel,

Outline his closet door.

Pregnant by the words of talking heads

Laying on commercial shores.  

And if he says yes to her, and yes to him,

Where did we go wrong...or did we not?

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, you'll tell them.

Dad on the mantle, and mom in the bed.

Tomorrow.

But now, it's today.