The Tomorrow I'Ll Never Know Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Windmills: windmills of that banal architecture,
While traveling through the hallways it
Seems as if very little else has changed;
But the fruit still falls from the tree
Of baseball diamonds,
And you are still looking up: up, up,
Casually around the world,
Trying to dispel your unusual language:
Well, here it is, while the octopus runs away:
Away,
In the inky censers of what was its yesterday:
Gone with the playgrounds in the albino
Snow,
Gone with the tomorrow- the tomorrow,
I’ll suppose I’ll never know.