In the region of ghosts
tomorrow is a winter coat
draped carelessly upon a chair.
You pick it up to put it on
when suddenly it is gone,
a thin skein of mist left in its place
floating through the open
window to halt in air in a place
where your flesh
holds its memories, the child
struggling in his innocence, while
the leaf rake leans where you left it,
and yesterday's broken shoes
still lie near newly shinned boots
on the rug by the door.
Walter Worden