Lost Things

I fear losing this world.
Silly. I won’t be here
when the sun goes
supernova. Even if
I live another 50 years
I probably won’t see the
last of the precious metals
used to build our playthings
dug from the earth.
I wonder what we’ll eat
that is fresh and juicy
when the sweet drone
of pollinators has been silenced.

I’ve heard people say,
perhaps with hope,
that the earth will survive
the human assault while
causing our own annihilation.
I doubt that. We’re insidiously
wired to populate, programmed
to look beyond our star, to
load up the Conestoga wagon
and hit the Milky Way trail.
We’ll leave landfills
and cesspools behind us
to burn, marked by the
crosses of elephant bones.

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