His eyes open on their own accord.

The sky is still blue and Mr. Olivesk will be in the office at 11.

White sheets of cotton pajamas fly into the air,

          the bathroom is five steps to the left.

A glass sphere blinks with neon red numbers

8:30 a.m., Monday March 32. He is late.

Was it a warning? He asks the warm shower tiles.

Steam rises through the vents and soap drips

          in the automated mist.

He could taste the sulfuric acid in the putrid dust and he saw

          the living complex blossom into nuclear ashes.

Why would--he saves that thought

and grabs a towel from the mechanical rack. He is quite late.

His boss is quite livid. Red cheecks swelling like

the Hindenburg, hands gesturing, and mouth howling.

The glass cubicles crings. It's the damn government.

Why reform the calendar in the midst of war?

Taxes are at an all-time high, schedules ruined,

          and now all the damn workers are a hour late to work.

America's gone to hell.

But He is engrossed on the dark laptop screen,

          strangely, not listening.