Pulling Up One's Socks Poem by Dónall Dempsey

The Future had come
to visit.

It knocked politely
on the door and

without waiting
for as much as

a by your leave
invited itself in.

'Come on in why doncha? '
my sarcasm lost on it.

'A word if I may...'
The Future said

'I know this is not
the done thing but...'

I noticed its sentences
never ended in a full stop

always an ellipsis...;

The room was full
of Donalls

the many mes I had
yet to be.

'As you can see...'
one of my Future selves

admonished me

'We, that is us, we
are not happy...'

'Oh! ' I said facetiously,
'We is not...is we? '

This Royal We business was
beginning to bug me.

All the other Future mes
nodded in agreement

simultaneously.

'You go on the way you are...'
a me 20 years from now

spluttered in
indignation

'There will be no me! '

'And so it is that We
have come to....'

Here it paused
to find the right word

'Have a quiet word
with you...'

it coughed and ahemed

'Self to self
(so to speak) ...'

They chanted as if
they were a Greek Chorus

'WE WANT YOU TO PULL UP
YOUR SOCKS...! '

'That's it? '
I said.
'Just that! '

'Just that..! '
the Future sighed

&
left

me to get on
with it.