Planet Lint

Gone era. Keys, wallet, belt, pocket

Change, pocket comb, face mask.

The phone, of course, my precious,

Cellular, pocket computer of wonder,

I keep clutched in my hand, tightly

As Charlton Heston clutching a gun.

Ah, well. All these, our items, will be

Mostly leftovers, even the weapons,

One day—soon for us, the snarling

Old wrecks who hang on to them,

But eventually for all other wrecks as well.

Unkempt Earth never empties its pockets,

Or hasn’t yet, although, look out below,

It has acquired a dusty, glinting hula halo

Of lint that spins around its waist and will

Gather until we all come out in the wash.