Tomorrows
  another frothing Friday, hoping desperately
      not to be discarded,
   as disjointed breath lusts
      for an oldie's comfortable refrain . . .
   words dry and harden,
         turn brittle,
            crumble
      in agonizing slowness,
         not quite sufficient
             to forget
        the ache of possibility
           so many tomorrows ago . . .