The Future Needs
The guts of the car clank and chug.
All of the future needs none
of your permission. Your handwriting
is still awful, your h, n, and m need one
less stroke than you provide, bob
their tails. Why, when you feed one
of your hungers, is it your sweet tooth.
And when you brush your teeth, some
of the enamel gets spat out, scrubbed
too hard. Smaller circles, leave some
of your bones intact. The year is
almost gone, and the week’s done
in days, but you squeeze the end
of the tube. Is the seed done
when the plant dies, not for the dirt,
it isn’t. You know the future needs no one.