Y2KMMMMMMMMMM...

There will come a time
Not too far from now,
In the way he thinks,
Which, of course,
Has small relation
To that clock upon my kitchen wall,
When he comes back to review.
The sky, he will see,
Is sad in need of repair.
A forefinger brushed
Across the black firmament
Will plunge into much emptiness
Finding much had gone,
Decayed, corroded into noxious dust.
He will cast a nostalgic eye
For tyrannosaurus rex, for herds of bison,
Tiger clans and the rest
Of the protein kaleidoscope.
Many little things have been chased away
By time and the hairless monkey.
It is worn, he will think.
Between forefingers and thumbs,
He will pluck away the universe,
Fold it like a handkerchief,
Perhaps blow his nose,
And stuff it into his
Right rear pocket.