Tomorrowland

I want you to be the reason

that thin plastic rattles on the ragged chain

links of a rusted fence

one side mangled to the ground while

the other scrapes exposed concrete-

the kind filled with indigenous pebbles,

dreaming of their ancestors.

Our future sits

bare feet on basement concrete

white dress tattered and smoky, stroking

at her ankles like a flame

blowing hot on the slice of burnt orange

setting slowly

singing softly

through a sill of

slivered

glass.

I want you to be the vision

of what a mother might have been

in the pure green days

of trees and four seasons

soccer games and sun-burnt ocean bays

when the sting and the rays

were of no consequence for a girl.

Thirsty, malleable hand,

consumed by the confidence

of familiarity

and routine.

While your pupils flash from blue to

white to red to grey to cloudy clear

to plastic and textiles and the foil remains

of some adorned piece of culture meant to

look and smell like food,

look at the shooting blades of persistence,

the wriggling struggle of species

still persevering through acidic water and

smothered rays and scarred earth,

vying for a chance to breathe.

Feel the pressure of cool glass

pressed on your face while cool glass

and climate controlled air still have enough

coal and ill-will to keep you bubbled

in comfort.

Feel the pressure of trash, building up around

you

And let each piece fly by, like your days

of indifference and consumption and waiting

for someone else to clean this mess up.

I want you to be the reason.