Yard Sale of Thoughts

Sun-dried sheets signal defeat.

Surrender means
we must cross the contrail bridge
formed by the UAP, 
a victory lap, see?
I will be a serving girl
somewhere in the sloppy swirl
of the gainfully-employed galaxy.

Below, sidewalks smile in cracks,
stray dogs scratch, 
and legacy machines rust.
I light up, one last puff,
knowing what is native
will once again
own my old home.

From the crown,
I still can't see the moon
past tempered glass,
an anthill high rise
built in the sky's crevasse.
Forty suffocating stories
that must be evacuated fast.

We are but
a forgotten moment,
a race of failed trust;
the planet has abandoned us.

©2023 | K.F. Hartless

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Cover Art: Anita Zotkina