Tim Lockridge

Wait, This Isn't The Future I Wanted

I expected more jetpacks, fewer miles
between me and the moon. A navigation
system so I might read magazines en route
to jury duty, which is actually less than
my original plan for a robotic pal to serve
on the jury for me. What happened? Years
unraveled and only the TV advanced.
Mine hangs by a picture of Heather,
the one where we scaled a small mountain
and she said Let's save this before pulling
a Polaroid from purse. The photo fell
into an empty desk drawer and stayed
there through several apartments. It looks
ridiculous in a frame, which is to say
my walls are unfinished pages. Some days
I stare into them and watch the answers
unfurl like morning. This is a hobby
I found in childhood when a profile
of Lincoln rose from a piece of wood
paneling. Years of sleep and a gaudy
Mount Rushmore, that's my memory
of youth. Still, all that science fiction
stacked against the radiator: where
is my ray gun, my flying car, my machine
that makes food on command? Will we
ever know love in the Holodeck?
I want a virtual hand in mine, an embrace
of zeroes and ones. I want a Paris
meant only for us, where we stroll
past a still Gare Du Nord, the ambient rattle
of tracks just a product of mood
making algorithms. Does it matter
that when I speak of the stars as memories,
we both know they're only projections?
Can I say I've imagined our sleep pod,
the Mercury rains around us? I could
sing of the meteor pulse
while your eyes fall like light
on impossible galaxies, a home
just to dust and potential.