Reality of Another Kind

Silent electric luxury glides uphill,
smooth as an algorithm deciding who is seen
and who becomes background noise.
Memories ride behind privacy glass,
past former gravel and wild oak,
past heat-shimmered drives and biometric gates,
where fortunes multiply like viral stock tips
and losses vanish into offshore clouds.
Rows of imported cypress stand at attention
like curated feeds concealing drought-cracked earth,
while gardeners straighten aching backs,
offering practiced nods for wages,
for tomorrow,
for survival.

The mansion waits above the valley,
vast as a data center storing every answer
except the one question that matters.
Marble reflects itself endlessly;
live-in attendants move like clockwork notifications
appearing on command.
A partner disappears up the grand staircase.
Another remains below,
retreating to a fortified room dressed as refuge,
surrounded by shelves of unopened wisdom,
their color-coordinated spines gleaming
like downloaded virtue left unread.

Outside, wildfire smoke stains the horizon orange
even as rooftop solar panels harvest light,
two futures occupying the same afternoon.

Beyond the walls,
a child gathers a flowering weed
and places it in a worker's weathered hand.
The gesture is small,
yet shines through the day like a community pantry
remaining full after the storm,
like neighbors charging one another's phones
when the grid goes dark.
No hedge fund, no trending outrage,
no encrypted fortune can purchase that moment.
The spade is set aside.
The flower is accepted.

For an instant,
reality remembers itself.

Mother and child

A smile.

A touch.

A lingering realness,
talked of by many,
seen by oh so few.