Poem: Old Future Henry

Henry walked through the years of advertisements
on his way home from the Library;
First ads for movies he'd never be able to afford to see,
then 3-D movies and virtual reality.
Still using a keyboard at sixty years young,
Henry was considered more archaic than a fossil.
He was an enigma, a retard, an art piece maybe.
But few would notice.
After a few decades the ads on the walls changed
to things he'd never heard of before,
"4-D" and "Senso-Motion Experience"
and on and on.
But Henry wasn't interested
and couldn't afford to be if he was.
He just kept typing out his gibberish until death,
hoping that one day
it might mean something to someone.

It never did.
Like so many other hopefuls
his life's work was thrown in the trash
along with his body and megre personal belongings.
Lucky for him,
he was too dead to notice.