The ocean is full of plastic. The baobab are dying.
There are 200 tigers total. Why don’t you do something?
About 1841 it was necessary to cut the tree a year ahead of time,
then chop it “by hand”, as the euphemism has it, into stove-size chunks
and let it age. Then one cold morning you take a couple pieces from their place to the right
of the kitchen door and bring them inside,
first knocking them against the handmade door-frame
so the spiders would drop. And once that was done you fed the stove
and the house would slowly heat.
You would do all this in your long-johns and bare feet,
taken from bed, the down comforter, and a small wife.
So, now it’s 2018 and life engulfs. There is too much life
and the requirements have changed.
One sips from a plastic cup as one writes up the nature
of one’s feelings. One In 7.5 billion.
And the feelings are fine, deserve a line or two maybe. Deserve
to exist for a few seconds within the eons of galaxy time,
enough deserving within the Deserving Calculus
to sip at plastic that will later…much later, much much much later..
after the feelings, the sanctified feelings, the typed-up feelings,
the rapidly disseminated feelings, once private now valiantly unleashed,
a smokey substance moving, shimmering in space,
the cyber flotsam,
the debris of yourself who should have done something,
but was writing instead.