— Dennis Richardson
I was deep in the rut of retirement yesterday,
the sky greatly undercast for the part it played
in the spotlight of the sun.
I bumped into breakfast then waded to the gym,
like every weekday, weekends no exception, no
surprises, the same mystical Del Monte catsup.
I limped home facing backward, the world
looking away from me, life leaving me behind,
people, trees, birds, even my shadow.
Stop it I said to no one and did a U-turn.
In that moment of turning, an idea occurred to me,
I could get a cyber-condo.
A new social networking service, like Facebook
but with people you don’t know.
It sounded to me like chipotle.
Arriving home, I typed www.complex.com/.
After filling out the long, intrusive questionnaire
I got into complex # 3.
It was the last vacancy they had, imagine that.
I was instantly moved in, my place on a corner,
I guess they all are. It overlooked a park.
I saw one of my neighbors across the way.
She waved to me and smiled. I felt better already.
Her contact number blinking, I decided to call.
I had this sudden urge to say maybe we can get
together sometime, you know, go out for coffee?
It rang. No one answered.
Her number was still blinking at me when I got it:
this is Farmville only with condos, hello…
and I had signed up to go to our gym tomorrow
to work on my apps. That’s when the doorbell rang.
I clicked on the doorknob. Skype came on and a man
in a white coat said hello, I’m doctor Schmitt.
I’ve been assigned to your case. I understand you’re
suffering from an inferiority complex.
I’ll call you tomorrow at 9 a.m. to begin
your therapy sessions. Just click on the door knob.
See you then. Oh, and reschedule the gym
for after 11.
Not in reference to the actual www.complex.com website.