Melting into the smooth white concrete patio,
I splay myself across the rickety lawn chair
in the high afternoon shade. My t-shirt
and boxers, one fat sweatstain.
The air hangs limp as we do, the only breeze,
Bobo’s panting as he sploots next to me.
We watch with dread the slow spin of the Earth
and the sun’s relentless march on our refuge.
The electric company turned off our power
to keep the datacenters humming and we’re down
to our last gallon of drinking water. I fill
his bowl and dampen the rag on my forehead.
We’re patient, because haven’t the energy
and it’s well past too late to complain.
(for this week’s Living Poetry prompt.)
Bartholomew Barker, Poet 