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 lies, 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
Promising to postpone that day for some –
When we die we can come back as robots
Lasting almost forever
Maybe then I’ll become more predictable
And never request another frappucino