Some decades back, in actual fact,
Being heard was feared.
Corded phones and dial tones
Were oft routinely cleared;

The worry was a 'wire-tap',
Domestic speech taboo.
The rumor was, in essence, that
If said, the White House knew.

Nowadays, this fear we lack,
And cheerfully obey.
Now we ask, "Hey, wire-tap,
What's the weather like today?"

A wish is lost
In an instant. Outside
The street that never sleeps
Festers below sheets
Of bitter rain. Your eyes burn in

Words you cannot read.
Concrete shimmers in the
Gleam of a million tears.
The sky above is thick with years
Of tar, like an enormous pavement.

Eyes shut, but still
Blue light permeates the
Shallow barrier of your hands,
Corruptions of sin, and fear,
And silence. You try to scream, but
You do not know how.

“Sir,” I ask, and raise my hand,
“Does it need to rhyme?” I chew on
My pencil with the other one.

“Oh no,” he says, “And thank
Goodness for that, else dialogue
Would be a nightmare.”

My problem with tomorrow is
Not foretold by the sky.
It’s not the Autumn morning rain
That comes, and pours, then dies.

My problem with tomorrow is
Not poverty or war.
It’s not the type of moving fear
That braver men stand for.

My problem with tomorrow is
Not quite a fear of death.
It’s not a fear of knowing which
Will be my final breath.

My problem with tomorrow is
The same as everyone’s.
My problem with tomorrow is
Tomorrow always comes.