poem typed on an envelope on sunday morning

it was a letter she never would send
wend itself about her bedroom only
uttered in the depths of a duvet and
forgotten like a dream in the morning

the literary critics of the 22nd century
when they discovered it thought it a tragedy
for had there ever been a document of a vestigial
humanity well this would be it, have been it

by this time of course the populous cared
not a jot (not even knowing what a jot was)
for all the highfalutin ideas we had of our century
they think us only as farmers, and bad ones at that

regardless, this letter, had it ever been sent
was a motif (at least) of what life on earth meant
many considered it a prevarication
but only because they could never think otherwise

so when you wake up in your own bed thinking
was that bionic arm really the right choice
go to the national museum of Scotland
where that failed voice is there in a glass case

you may still find a residue of fingerprints
on what – remember – was once fickle as sand
a cage about a cursive case never cast
and none of us are old now, but we have no hands