Tomorrow, he will wake up
in a new world, a peaceful world,
a world of red-gingham oilcloth
on picnic tables, of fields of daisies
scattered across crisp cotton dresses.
Tomorrow, the TV will remain off,
the telephone will not ring, and
the car? Well, he may take a drive,
the way folks used to do on Sunday
afternoons, when dinner was still
a few hours away and the katydids
buzzed out where the grass grew
long and dry and golden, so that
it crunched like gravel underfoot.
Tomorrow, he will wake up
a new man, eyes adjusting to the light
in her smile, inspired by the shape
of a cup or a chair, listening, hearing,
perhaps even understanding his
favorite song, or the startling slowness
of galaxies rising, crossing, slowly
tumbling off the edge of a three a.m. sky.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: pamjpat/Pixabay
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