In wastes so scorched that
even scrub brush finds no sanctuary
sits a box of cheap wood-
in another universe perhaps
an Ikea desk for an impressionable
young adult.
Empty, its occupant
stubbornly refusing lodging
thinking — no, no! I have
many grand years ahead!
As if such words were true.
There are few constants
amidst vast
collective chaos.
The sun rises, the sun sets
the box must return
to the soil where the pine
once stood.
Unspoken Politics 