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.