Yard Sale of Thoughts

If I squint, the fog is thin.

Think bbq pit. 

Palm tree fronds landscaped to look European. 
Bangkok in August, a tropical destination. 

Global warming's acid rain soothed by well-kept gardens,
but the roads remain clogged arteries,
and what I've held on to all these years
(thought as golden)
has been pissed on,
effaced, and
broken.

Bullying rains pummel me again,
a thunder crash or is it the trash truck's rumble?

The smell of burnt tires,
and the plastic bags
holding plastic cups 
with plastic straws 
don't go unnoticed.

The city stinks.
Mother Earth perspires
alongside us as we 
grip hope like a faulty motorbike choke.

Beneath familiar clothes,
we are all mire and muck,
and veins running cargo
upon dirty moats.

I walk the ditch line until even it 
becomes impassable,
and then I wait there, stuck.

Nothing can protect us from the dust,
the inhalable particles,
the final embargo.

© 2024 | K.F. Hartless

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