Someday

There is a car in my driveway
that will not run. My neighbor
got it for free and plans to make it work
someday. Someday. Right now 
it’s a small white wreck with four flats
and a college parking sticker 
from five years ago in the front window,
but it looks like a promise to my neighbor
that someday it will be the best deal
he ever made.  

There is a thin coat of white
on all the cars in the driveway.
One red (that’s mine), one black (that one is
my lover’s car), and my neighbor’s white wreck
which looks cleaner now that it’s coated in snow.
Someday there will be a full storm — or so
we’re told. No telling when, of course. The weather
has been a lie for years now; we have turned it
into one big lie. Someday all three cars
will be mounds of pure white
to be dug free, but right now 
that’s just a threat and instead we’ve got two
that are ready to roll and one that isn’t,
two that run and one that doesn’t.
Mine is one of the ones that runs 
right now, and while I know someday
it will stop, that day, I hope,
is still far off.

There’s a fear in the air right now,
but someday it won’t be there. Someday
all these broken cars will run like tops
and all these promises will spring into life.
My neighbor will get that scrap heap to run
and off he’ll go, a smile on his face. My car will hold
until I can get another one just as good or better,
and my lover’s car will do the same.
The snow will come and settle and melt
on schedule as expected.  Right now
no one’s got a clue about what’s to come,
about when someday might at last slip into place
and bring a dose of hope at last.
Until then we’ll keep these wrecks running
and dig out when we have to

until someday, when we’ll sit down
and sigh 
and cry and laugh
about how we got through
right now. Not today, no — 
but someday.  

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

One response to “Someday

  • Eileen

    Sometimes a little white cover up is all we need to keep our fingernail grip on hope. You never fail to surprise. I think we ride the same roller coaster across the burning bridges!

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