What does the world look like in 50 years?

The sea came in, and we redrew the maps instead of it.
Summer is a season you plan around, the way winter used to be.
The machines do most of the remembering now;
the old still argue whether that was theft or a gift.
Somewhere a girl who has never seen a glacier
fixes her bicycle with a part printed that morning,
annoyed at her mother, in love with the wrong person, late:
the future, it turns out, is mostly still a Tuesday.

The coast has stepped back from the oldest maps.
White roofs, pale roads, and streets designed for shade.
The wild is quieter, and more fiercely fenced.
Machines are brilliant, common, badly shared.
Whole cities learn the languages of the displaced.
Still, there is supper, and somebody at the door.
The future will not look like punishment.
It will look like Tuesday, with everything it costs.