A future poem. Very rough, but something,
On Hearing the Song “In the Year 2525′ in 2020
In the year 1969 we thought our short skirts would save us. Make love not war was the cry and a little magazine called Ms. did not exist until 1970, but the signs were there. Vietnam was our background war and the draft haunted every high school graduation. I was reminded often that I was not the one who could be drafted, as if losing fathers, brothers, sweethearts, husbands was not my concern. The divide between man and woman was no worse than before, but no better. What would we be in 2525? Would the world exist or would it explode into the newest asteroid belt in the local universe? It was easier to envision doom than puzzle out new normal. Don't worry. You'll be a housewife. Don't worry. You can't be drafted. I didn't worry, but the future came anyway and women still have to fight to be heard and still have to fight for a seat at the table and when we speak at that table are still told not to be so loud. Don't wear pantsuits. Don't wear short skirts. Don't be shrill but do talk when it is important. Knowing when that is is the secret, one I still don't know. I am now living in my future. If this is not my future, then when?