Tomorrow I will make my own breakfast.

I will put new tires on the car I will breathe.
I will nap in a hammock I will lose my glasses
twice at least. I will think about my brother and how
we haven’t spoken in many days. How he hoped
things would turn out well in the future.

I am in the future now, and they have.

Tomorrow I will rub the sore spot in my shoulder
I will envy a man’s Nissan bakkie, so compact,
so practical.

I will fail to wash the car again. Car washing is
unrewarding I lack the personality trait that finds
pleasure in a clean car. Tomorrow I will
wash the car for you so you won’t be embarrassed

Tomorrow in the morning I will make your coffee
but I will pour myself a little bit more than I will
pour for you. Tomorrow in the evening I will give you my last
sip of wine. You will take it, eyes
still on the travel documentary about Switzerland
or Italy or Kuala Lumpur.

I will worry about my bad habits
I will scratch my head and close windows against mosquitoes
I will consider shaving off my beard, but I will not.

Tomorrow I will hug Benjamin until he lets go first
and hope that he feels loved.
I will tickle Emma’s feet and rub Lucy’s shoulders.

We will talk about the latest movie,
lounging sideways in living room chairs.
We will brag about
how we managed not to cry again
Even in the parts where other people cried.

Tomorrow I probably will start reading Dostoevsky
I probably will not start reading Dostoevsky. I will read
a tawdry thriller with undeveloped characters
and plot points so obviously foreshadowed I can
predict each one. It’s like knowing the future.

Tomorrow I will make my own breakfast.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.