At twilight you try to hold it together;
you gather your strength but the day comes apart.
That bastard Tomorrow has a grip by the hair;
he pulls the old helpless one out into space.
(Let him try that with Morning.)
All your sure pleasure has flown off to his place,
a black hole where he cooks up a new day
and sends it back dew wet and unwanted.
The spilled sunset is all that remains;
although you cannot stand it, you don’t make a sound.
You have a big house with a pony in back
and unlimited color TV in the corner.