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Tomorrow we might be all turned off,
no longer working, not very happy
and unable to feel any pity.
That’s the end of potato croquettes and meat balls
the raw bits of us worldly people’s Sundays.
Tomorrow we might even smooth the table edges
to hit our head against them: it’d be less hard.
Tomorrow we might curse our past
(although with diplomacy)
closing it in a toolbox
and sending it to Poste Restante “Mysteries of Faith”.
Tomorrow it might be the last idiocy
it’s better to book at the reservation desk.
Tomorrow, another day, we’ll try not to say again “we’ll see”,
but “we’ve already seen”.
Tomorrow it’s another replica
another unsurmountable distance
another shot in the darkness
another stupid collage of hours and minutes
another changing of the guard.