I know I don’t know
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