The houses weeping from their gutters
can confirm this.
We carried a kind of wonder to term
before dropping it in the middle
of the cul-de-sac our dreaming had sketched out.
Something illegible and drastic
had been etched upon the asphalt,
but what was it trying to say?
That each day
we believe less in our backs, perhaps,
as the stiffness and pain accumulate
and remain at their leisure.
That a sizeable portion of humanity
is a shifting morass
of blundering forgetful thumbsuckers
whose tongues yearn for a big enough boot.
All over you see the soot and pollution
begin their tragic ascent
towards the whispering clouds.
Things are only going to get heavier from here.