Here is a picture of
the edge of civilization:
(You've fallen down a sort of
social rabbit hole.)

Pavement slick with rain,
harsh white streetlight
turns it into a mirror;
it rained today.
and it will rain tomorrow.

The concrete will absorb
every drop of water;
struggling grass drinks it up
so it may become green veins.
Of course, if a tree ever dared
to put down roots, it must pay the price.

The planet is so tired.
Natural order implies control.
Mother Earth has given up,
and so have you.

The phone booth,
oasis of communication,
theoretically connecting you
with the world beyond these
four narrow glass walls.

You think, tomorrow will be
better because the sky will not
bleed into the ground so much.
Nothing like this thick velvet night.

The air here is cold and breakable.
Winter. Not all of us were meant to
survive; the planet rejects humans
like transplanted organs, because it
fears for its own survival.