2109

—“Everyone must write a poem entitled ‘2109’ for next week’s class.”

“Pi-ow”
I pretend to shoot myself in the head.
“Write it about our children’s children,” my fiance suggests,
and let me tell you, he does not normally say cheesy-sweet things like that.

But I don’t want to write about someone else’s life.
For the first time in my life, I want to live my life.
For once, I don’t want to be dead.

All my concerns are so 2009.

In 2109, my wedding registry
at Macy’s, Target, and REI and Crate and Barrel (if I get my way)
will be nothing.

In 2109, my honeymoon will have been over for a long time.

In 2109, the one person I long for will be departed from that precious, decayed body.

In 2109, even my future children
Constance Hartzler Wenger
Otto J. Wenger
and Yolande “Yoli” Kay Wenger
will be dead!
The babies I haven’t even conceived yet! Dead!

What is to desire about that?

“These and all else were to me the same as they are to you”
is small comfort when my pleasures are so petty.
I have become so small, Walt Whitman.

In 2109, the cheap double-sided tape I use to bond paper to other paper
and call it stationery
will be brown and have no sticking power.