When I imagine retirement,
I imagine lying in a pod,
eyes closed, atrophied,
plugged into a machine
that fires the electricity of the latest Star Wars
across what’s left of my demented psyche.

There will be rows of us.

Outside the skies are gray.
If I was rich they would be black
with the promise of outer space.
The clouds still drop water for days
but no one drinks from the muddy decay.

If I receive a visitor,
we’ll appear together at a French cafe.
I’ll have to pause the movie and flicker.
They’ll be hundreds of miles away.
We won’t talk for long.
The news is slow and the AI doesn’t like to make new anime.

I expect I’ll mostly slumber.
Sink into hours and weeks and months
dreaming of creating grand plays and famous novels,
games with swords and plants and fish.
I won’t notice the clock click by.

Eventually, the power will spasm,
generators creak and groan,
red lights gasp rapidly,
and then every echo in the hangar will evaporate.

I won’t move.