It’s a little too easy.
Soon, San Francisco will be one quick toll bridge away from Japan.
The mayor will dye the sky a proper blue.
My dog won’t require me.
We’ll find it difficult to stand, hard to find a hearty pee-in-your-pants laugh.
But still a cinch because we’ll laugh and not realize its potential.
That a laugh can both squeeze and relax things just right so that one of our buttons of control malfunctions.
There’ll be a cure for incontinence anyway. And for embarrassment and for anxiety so what does the laugh matter?
We’ll unsalt the water and find it bland.
Babies will stop crying. Maybe they’ll beep instead. Or vibrate or pulse or glow the faint brightness of day.
There’ll be no need for roller coasters.
You won’t meet your next husband waiting in line.
Every problem is solved.
So new trouble must be found:
Too high. Too golden. Not poisonous enough.
Until someone finally lets herself feel it. That itch under her skin. That skinned knee. That dead relationship. That hangover.
And submits to the living part of life.