Tomorrow - Poem

Tomorrow.
-S.T. Owen


It’s past midnight...
All I have are bottles to keep me company.
And they don’t do much for conversation...
Just cheap laughs.
I can’t stand this damn room.
And its thick, dumb walls.
Here I am, leaning my back against the bed.
Sharing the floor with books I don’t read.
Piles of them,
Like little bodies of house-cats
Or trained songbirds,
Bitter and unfed.
Staring as I sit and drink from my bottle.
And my walls...
Covered in all those pictures I don’t even look at
Except when I’m making love.
That one goddamn picture In particular.
The one on its slant above my headboard...
Drives me crazy.


I should have gone to the city.
To Europe... to Paris.
I should never have folded anything
Bought anything,
Kept anything...
I hate it here.
Why don’t I go?
I could throw a few clean shirts in a bag,
I could wear my good black jacket
On the bus.
I’ve got a hundred dollars.
I’ll just split,
And no one will know where I’ve gone.
And no one will write to me.
And no one will call for me in the morning.
They’ll ask around, but everyone will just say
“He left everything; all his books, even.”
I’ll go without all my photographs...
I’d be bare faced
And free.
And if I took a ship anywhere,
I’d stand out at the front and let myself get wet
Let myself get soaked,
By the wild and the cruelty of the world.
Even if it was cold.


But then again-
None of the buses
To the bus stop are running now.
It’s late, after all...
And I’ll have to stop by Jack’s for my jacket anyway.
I’ll leave tomorrow.
I’ll throw everything in a bag tomorrow.
Tonight, well... Why don’t I call Carla?
I haven’t seen her in a while.
I wonder if she still wears her...
Hair
The same.
All dark and pulled back, and her eyes,
I wonder if they’re still clear like they were.
She had such terrific eyes.
We were younger.
Thinner.
Clearer.
Back when we used to talk in quiet rooms,
When we wouldn't even turn on any music,
I can remember her over by the window, smoking.
Her eyebrows playing at a frown,
And I from the bed,
Watched her breasts rise and fall,
I felt my chest follow hers.
Thinking that if she stopped breathing,
So would I.

Yeah, I’ll call up Carla.
Maybe she’ll come along;
We could hop a bus in the morning,
After making love all night...
We’d bus out West or South or someplace,
And we’d find life.
We’d grab it!
Steal it like a loaf of bread and rip it up between us!
And we’d stuff our faces...
Ravenous, greedy and desperate.
Without a hint of shame.


But then again-
It’s nearly one now,
And I wouldn’t wanna call her up and wake her.
Lord knows,
She wouldn’t come along if that were the case.
Why don’t I call her tomorrow?
Just see how she is...
Then we could go off
On a bus, or a plane, or a boat or something...
I may as well open up another bottle.
I don’t have to be up by noon, anyhow.
And once I drink a little more,
I’ll fix that damn picture
I’ll make it straight and good...
That fucking picture
Above my head.