by Loretta Diane Walker

What is so utterly invisible as tomorrow?
--Mary Oliver

treat tomorrow with long locks of certainty
and strong arms that will embrace “the five year plan.”
I give it elaborate names like calendar,
agenda, itinerary, next year,
expect it to squeeze my shoulders,
massage plans into perfection and fill its basket
with unfinished business.

I try to tie a weight around its veiled neck
to anchor my need for security,
up and down the stairs of my mind.

I treat it as though I own it,
can make it do tricks at the snap of fingers.
How I deceive myself!
I am on the porch of evening,
an expectant puppy wagging her hope,
paws scratching towards a sky freckled with light,
waiting for tomorrow to rub me on my head.

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