Tomorrow you’ll be to me:
As in Pharaoh's closing eye.
As an orphan’s lullaby.
As a failed poet’s sigh.
And on that day, I to you:
A palette without dark blue.
A chasm at the closed zoo.
A refrigerated stew.
Hand in hand we’ll slowly walk,
Beneath spinning fountain-clock,
Half-way up the busy hill --
Smile and nod, though seldom talk.
__________
Copyright 2022 Jeffrey Merk
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