The labor shortage
Allows a city employee,
To lower their head, oblivious to passing strangers
To aim their leaf blower
And push debris toward the curb, where a street sweeper
Collects our cigarette butts,
toilet paper scraps
And lip skin gnawed apart in strip search fashion,
Building the Wasteland
for the whimpering end,
To begin again and again, et al.
A technique to rename Hyperreality
Sway potential hires to remain infatuated
With their couch cushions and sitcom reruns. As opposed to
Directing trash to its reincarnation, or
Acquiring spit wads, springing forth from loose tongues
Blabbering about the imperfect conditions
Experienced by parishioners,
Following the Copernican Principle.
Comet tears direct
A leveler’s precision
To balance a drying jello-mold.
Foundations wobble and
Dictate available work
And insist sure-footing isn’t shaking
Of humans adjusting their sleep schedules
To the Industrial Age. Tossing
And turning. Turning and tossing
And peering over at the BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH
Alerting them about another beautiful stranger,
Past their prime, hoarding the stones
We desperately need to build infrastructure.
Mosquitoes hatch and their fresh bodies
Travel to open windows,
Land on mesh screens.
They spend a quarter of their lives
Locked on boundaries,
Peering inside at the blood
Which sustains them,
Unaware the only reason
Their species survives
Is because there’s so many
Of them available to die.