Elusive as
always, the future,
we chased
it through the long night
through the
alleys that stank of piss
our piss
always it
managed to stay a step or two
ahead,
which way, which way?
She points
up the staircase
but we find
only an open window
curtains,
echoes, a sheer drop.
Cold dawn
throws failure in our faces
piles the
present up around us
and mocks
us with its immediacy
the future
is now
and now is
slipping away
fading
like
tomorrow’s forgotten dream.
(Originally appeared in steetcake magazine)
