At best, a harbinger

They’ll call him a portent
Sweeping across kempt lawns
A hollow suit thrashing and twisting
Getting caught up in clothing lines
Slapping drones in anger

But they’re trapped too
Ensnared by old technology
And outdated values

Something smells
And it ain’t laundry
He can’t stand the odor of a soaked suit
Except a different set of laws says everything is staying put
The crowd laughs at the buffoon
Drenched and demoralized

He’ll recover, though
As long as the name lives on
And on
Even as a footnote
Or a stepping stone to larger problems

“Reality needn’t be whole, boy”
His dad had told him
And with that memory he was content
To let the clothing lines support him
He needed a rest

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