On Realizing That I Tend to End with Nature Imagery

I need to meet more robots. Now androids
can assess distance and direction and cars
can parallel park themselves. All the years
we feared mechanical and only risked
our radial tread. I fret the unknown:
unshredded junk mail, soft spots in apples—
which I’ve removed from my diet, but how
many multivitamins make up a serving
of fruit? My grandfather takes a palette
of pills daily, lives life buoyed by Pfizer.
I took Hannah to meet him, long before
a series of off-ramps carried her to Nebraska.
He looked at her and said to me, “Now that’s
one you want to keep.” But soon doors
slammed and she purchased packing tape.
Yesterday a friend showed me pictures
of a reception I wasn’t invited to, so I sent
a belated gift, a small robotic vacuum
which I hope will scuff her baseboards.
I want to be remembered, this is why
I share Walt Disney’s cryogenic dream.
My will and testament demands dry ice
at the funeral, a coffin descending into white
wisps. Later, at the lab, a team of technicians
will prep the body and place me with former
Presidents and Nobel laureates. I imagine us
waking in a stainless steel room where we’ll scoff
at hovercraft and talk fondly of fossil fuels,
all the while wondering what life we’ve missed.
Some will take to research, others rallying the old
social movements, but me—I’m asking only
for a meadow, or maybe the thin edge of forest,
a place to escape the smart and self-propelled,
where I can sleep and wake with eyes full of blue.

Copyright © 2007 Tim Lockridge All rights reserved
from Backwards City Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission