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?

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