Wine-stained crumpled up red cups,
half-smoked, all smashed cigarettes,
and balled greasy fast food wrappers.
Trash is temporary and your joy
is fleeting, so buy another blind-box toy.
Your shelves are full, but don’t you fret,
there’s always more room at the dump.
Put every piece in poorly sorted piles
and abandon it all to never touch
again,
yearning for the happiness it once
brought,
now nothing more than a nest
for rats.
Rotten neon sludge
and rainbow oil
dripping into the sea,
set to boil
slipping down for
more room
at the dump.
Garbage stacks that rival
skyscrapers,
our tower of Babel for God to
forsake.
Space is scarce, so send it
skyward or ship out to
foreign acres:
pressure the poorest
people off their
pastures,
or plan the Pacific trash
patch for your tropical
paradise—
but don’t stop buying,
we’ll do anything
for more room at the
dump.
