Inventory for a Boy Who Knows Tomorrow

I learn the future

from what keeps running.

The sidewalk outside our building

splits again,

concrete opening its mouth.

The weed pushes through anyway,

green like a lesson learned.

A memory of how to override commands.

My watch flickers blue on my wrist,

seconds stuttering when I sprint.

Mama says it’s cheap tech.

I say it’s syncing

to my pulse.

On the walk home,

streetlights blink in a row:

one out,

one dim,

one buzzing—

like a message

I haven’t unlocked yet.

At the corner store,

glass thick as a promise,

the man behind it nods.

Facial recognition—

confirmed alive.

At home, rice simmers slow,

the pot humming like a generator.

Steam lifts,

smelling like hands

that survived without backups.

My tablet charges beside the sink,

screen cracked in one corner.

Maps of futures load slowly.

I swipe past cities

that don’t save boys like me,

bookmark the ones that do.

I cut the onions with care.

Tears show the body

is still honest.

Outside, a drone hums past the window,

red light blinking,

counting something I can’t see.

I pull the blinds halfway—

privacy learned early.

I think about boys.

The boys who moved too fast

and disappeared between updates.

I put the plate aside anyway.

Not ritual—

data storage.

The moon buffers above the rooftops,

reflecting borrowed light.

My practice stays the same.

Tomorrow is already online,

waiting for my input.

Tonight,

I stay still enough

and learn how to carry time

without dropping it.

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