The Promise of Tomorrow

A fairly cynical take on things but, as I see it, not often wrong. Watching this trial of trump and his trumpery fills me with such contempt and loathing that even "hope" itself seems pointless.

If you dislike harsh, bitter poems, avoid this one.

The Promise Of Tomorrow

This promise of tomorrow,
  and the hope of change
          (for the better)
    is a tricky fish to land.
        On the one hand
         all we have to do
     is sit quietly and wait.
       On the other hand,
 who has that kind of faith,
 who has that kind of time?

 When it finally does arrive,
      as it inevitably must,
 (unless we have departed,
      as we inevitably will)
        what will we have?
   Was it all we hoped for,
     was it worth the wait?

         We can look back
              to yesterday,
and say we guessed wrong,
               (yet again).
    That’s how hope works-
       with that slim chance
   that things will get better,
         or maybe just not
           as bad as today.
   That is how low the bar is.

  Nostalgia starts percolating
    with this morning’s coffee.
             I say to myself,
    "Yesterday wasn’t so bad."
Sifting though those old photos,
           we all look finer
       in sepia and low light.

   It might be that today’s bar
     is lower than yesterday’s,
    and tomorrow's lower still.
        That does seem to be
         the rhythm of this life:
    we have a recurring dream
        of tomorrow’s promise,
         and then, upon arrival,
       the daily amnesia begins
  and all we have to work with is
       some dimly recalled pact.
          By this time tomorrow,
       yesterday will be a vague,
         but lovingly lit memory.

        I dwell in that sweet spot,
somnambulantly shifting my weight,
    between nostalgia and promise,
           self-delusion and hope, 
             a conman’s paradise.
     I fertilize my hallowed ground
             ardently with bullshit.