I was thinking back
on this premonitory poem I wrote
some years ago
about the collapse of the political cogniscenti
as the donkeys brayed
and the preying mammoths
transformed into an incestuous army
of cackling jackals
biting each other
eating their young
along with everyone else’s.

(I don’t want to repeat the poem
but just so you know
it’s good.
Look it up on your local social media.)

I was interested
in the forecasting powers
I had displayed
and curious if my power
as unparalleled predictor
might make me a man of menace
to those around me.

Had my prognostications
my ability to foresee
made me beyond mere mortals
and would my friends
starting seeing me
as something far to superior to them?
What did my personal future hold?
Should I write a poem about me
to know for sure?

But then I realized
a stopped clock never coils
and
while I predicted the predilections
of these primaries,
I have also written
about fetal sex
and extraterrestrial venereal diseases
and that maybe
I might remain mortal
for a little while longer.