While I grew up, so much of the good stuff
I read or watched or played at in the yard
had a twenty in the year.

So every time I date a check at the grocery store,
I feel like I'm writing science fiction.

Which angers me a little as I walk outside
and despite my bagful of genetic fruits,
my engineered meals packed into a single square,
the sunset sky is empty of zeppelins.

And the parking lot is full of cars,
every one of them grounded--
all of us helplessly remembering
how once we'd never needed wheels.

(Originally published as "2004" in Tales of the Unanticipated, 2004)