So what’s the diagnosis?
A hundred years from now,
when the last picture fades
or is chewed up by the
latest half-poodle hybrid,
will anyone remember me?
Is there someone in the future
who’ll dig out my old poems,
or go hunting for them
in the internet’s deep pits?
Nothing will remain in print
but, by then, it’s possible
print won’t even remain in print.
Maybe a complete stranger
will ‘fat finger’ a web-site address
and be taken to one of my love poems
as it fools all algorithms long enough
to pop up on their screen.
Maybe they’ll wonder about
the woman whose name is in the title.
She too will materialize,
however briefly, in the next century.
But, unlike me, that’s never been
a concern for her.