poem
Volume 33, Number 3

Refugees from the Future

Periodically they appear, gaunt, 
lines etched in their cheeks, not 
round like us though all of them 
are us which is the weird part. 
They do not complain and have 
to be pressed to say a word about 
the future: it is hot, the birds are 
not the birds you know, etc. They 
take rooms in the public housing 
set aside for them and spend their  
time eating our snacks and drinking 
our soft drinks until they start to  
look a lot more like us which they 
should since they’re us only older. 
Sometimes they take a stroll by 
their old haunts and homes which 
they’re not supposed to do but who 
can blame them though this makes 
their younger selves nervous, you 
know, being watched by someone 
who knows how things will turn out  
when you’re holding on to hope.


—Ian Willey