poem of the day February 6

Times moves

along so quickly

Quicker than Buck Rogers

blasting into the future

on a rocket made of yesterday's space suit 

Makes me wonder 

What is the future?

Is it a Robot named Tobor?

Will someone invent a new toilet?

Have Martians landed on Mars?

The confusion of speculation

multiplied by time is an equation

that must to be allowed to ripen

in both the imagination and on the vine