The Future


I know I don’t know

The Future

But does the future know me?


Is it predicted that at 8:43 next Sunday

I will order pumpkin spice Frappuccino

Served by the niece of the ex-wife of my former best friend

A bottle-blonde bitch who hates me?


Or will I force myself to a brisk, breezy walk 

Arrive at 8:44

Tell the barista she’s insanely gorgeous and

Her aunt’s stories are ridiculous lies

Then order a small vanilla Frappuccino

With no ice?


I like to think I control my fate

Yet our Great Leader tells me when we end

We will come back as robots

Lasting almost forever


Maybe then I’ll become more predictable

And never request another frappucino