Everything Slides to the Back.

For starters, the future isn’t real.

It’s a term; that’s real. People argue

Over the meanings the term may have,

And empires, whether military

Or financial, rose and fell—will rise

And fall—over their use of the term,

But there is no future to visit,

Despite all the sci-fi narratives.

Where does that leave us? Does it matter?

There’s a natural experiment

Nature runs daily, maybe hourly,

In which someone finds out that they don’t,

Likely, have even a month to live.

If you could interview those people,

What sorts of futures would you find out?

For one, the subjects would have mere stumps

Of what had flourished as internal

Conversation. Without next, what’s there

To talk about within the brain? No

Fantasized future builds palaces,

However lackluster, to explore.

And, speaking of buildings, memory

Is what those fine futures were made of.

Now, here’s your futureless person, perched

In a wheelchair or armchair, maybe,

Realizing the future has been

The past all along. You’ve lost nothing.