Tick Tick

How about no legacy?
No oeuvre, no books, nothing left?
Not merely no one wanting

To dive into the archive
Curved like a body pillow,
Held close for too many years,

But physically nothing
Of remains but dust, trash, and ash,
Black hole cloud of horizon.

How about no audience
Or bizarre non-audience,
Consisting of aliens

To all of earth’s history
Maybe scanning their own skies
For signs, recognizing none,

Or free-range intelligence.
There goes your best legacy.
Or leave it to the machines.

They can read it, store it, they
Are storing it even now.
Your motorized legacy.