Ripped from another blog:

Tomorrow

Cigarette smoke hanging on
in the living room. The ship's lights
out on the water, dimming. The stars
burning holes in the sky. Becoming ash, yes.
But it's all right, they're supposed to do that.
Those lights we call stars.
Burn for a time and then die.
Me hell-bent. Wishing
it were tomorrow already.
I remember my mother, God love her,
saying, Don't wish for tomorrow.
You're wishing your life away.
Nevertheless, I wish
for tomorrow. In all its finery.
I want sleep to come and go, smoothly.
Like passing out of the door of one car
into another. And then to wake up!
Find tomorrow in my bedroom.
I'm more tired now than I can say.
My bowl is empty. But it's my bowl, you see,
and I love it.
-Raymond Carver

I've read this poem before and loved it. Carver lived somewhere in the Port Angeles area and I can imagine, if he were still alive, we could be watching the same ships pass in the dark, several hours apart, giving substance to the sense of time passing. More and more, time seems like a willful child, running away, staying out of reach, teasing and taunting, uncontrollable, knowing I can never get my hands on it to slow it down just a bit!