Tomorrow May Come

The people who are dead inside
hang their heads like shameful dogs
in collared shirts of whites and blues
plaids and checks
clinging to worn bus seats
and greasy poles
on this sunny day
of strange warmth
and lingering summer.
I shout:
Don’t give up!
There is more to this dream.
It’s a gift,
but you have to look.
No — really look.
Don’t shut it out.
Open your eyes.
Chin up.
They blink under glossy stares,
their eyes aglow with phone screens,
tweets and hashtags
fake news and ads.
They thought they heard
someone,
or maybe not —
not today at least,

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