Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow: Each as perpetually empty as this glass. Dry, or dirty, or wet, or vodka over gin— That forsaken day is but an hourglass, Repetitive, and as costly as my sin. Yesterday, and yesterday, and yesterday: This bartop counter did not feel as small. Mixing disparate ingredients was sound, And the names we carved in the bathroom stall Echoed through the ages, the whole world round. If, and maybe, and might, and forever: I shall continue this waking vigil; I shall hold onto the very last taste-view, All of the sensory inputs available; And this martini makes me think of you.
