Why

Why haven’t I been writing poetry . . . do I really have nothing to say? Nothing even though it's the time when time is an avalanche halfway to the end of us all? A time when civil discourse left the building with Elvis, illegal immigrants cage the indigenous, and humanity is the red sweater Mr. Rogers no longer puts on. This time of feelings stuffed behind motherboards of iPhones wishes struggling to breathe behind masks, and wanting fulfilled by Amazon. There are blue boxes – missing places and ballots, full-service stations – pumping gas from Standing Rock, and no national anthems ending the day – tell lie vision never ends. When verdant intentions toward transformative text become money from a Brinks truck wrecked on the highway, while melting icebergs wave goodbye to barrier islands, and polar bears and penguins twerk to the rhythm of cracking ice, written intentions will not stand between humanity and a watery abyss. & I can't find the right thing to say to our un-brave new world. So I'll put a picture of my missing stanzas on a milk carton. Sketch them with invisible ink of ideals and wait for time to go bye. Would you be, could you be, my neighbor?