It’s the 1% of the 1% now
who sleep, dream, and,
in a reversal that few predicted,
make a great show of doing their own laundry.
They fawn over their Egyptian carbon sheets,
platinum washing machines,
and scented detergent far more than their hybrid
rocket-yachts that ease with thunder from the Caribbean
to the Sea of Tranquility.
The tech industry, of course, cured sleep
in 2040. It was a great boon to us
jetpacked professionals, commuting
from Kansas to California,
or one hemisphere to the other during the perpetual
rush hour in our global rotation of minimum wage jobs.
I don’t go home at the end of the day.
I take a pill of nanites and other things
requiring informed consent
before moving on a few times zones.
I’ve been saving up since I graduated from college,
hoping to rent a place to
stand for an hour at some window
near sea level and watch the sun
sink into the Pacific.
