But there are no large trucks in this draft poem.
Jealousy
Goddamned toddlers on square shoes
waddling through a hundred seasons I’ll never see.
Babies with greedy fat palms will grip
autumn leaves each year after I’m dead.
Is it so much to ask to have them write?
Even a quick note: Hi there,
it would read, letters reversed, awkward,
the future is great. Wish you were here!
We stopped using fossil fuels
fifteen minutes after you died
which was pretty much the same time
that we stabilized the earth’s population.
Within the year, we had figured out
how to banish poverty and executive salaries.
And now, every ball team
ends the season above .500.
Tuck the note into the urn with my ashes.
Shake it around. Give me a minute to read.
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