by Louis Gallo
Tomorrow is just another name for today.
Or tomorrow is futile
as the moon of a fingernail,
casual as steam from coffee,
mournful as vestiges of stems
on apples stored in market bins.
I am going fishing now.
I put behind me yesterday.
I don’t care how the moon will find its way
through all that swanky space.
I drink my coffee black –
the ascension of its moisture-lace
is brutal fact with no bearing.
If some fish lunges for my bait
the jolt should be enough
to assure the cosmic bluff
and weld apples of today
to boughs they dropped from yesterday.