The Day After Tomorrow
his clothes smell like Tuesday
on a Friday afternoon;
he bums a smoke, a light,
and looks away.
the lines in his face, jaw set,
like a map to where
he cant quite remember.
he watches the smoke
curl up like infidel prayers
lost on a street corner,
to the lights and the noise.
dont look too close!
you might find your self
staring back at you
from the day after tomorrow!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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