The Day After Tomorrow
E
Eric Cockrell
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his clothes smell like Tuesday
on a Friday afternoon;
he bums a smoke, a light,
and looks away.
the lines in his face, jaw set,
like a map to where
he cant quite remember.
he watches the smoke
curl up like infidel prayers
lost on a street corner,
to the lights and the noise.
dont look too close!
you might find your self
staring back at you
from the day after tomorrow!
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