Plastic girl doing the dashboard hula hoop
out of the loop nothing to do
but wait for the waves to crash over me,
painted garbage piled high reaching the sky,
a foul mountain of refuse and denial
and returned post packages, a tumbling
self-combusting compost heap of history
and redundant technology.
Decaying layers of laser printers under the dark mat
of tangled HDMI cables and cracked phone screens,
a ship load of lithium and cobalt tailings
all my failings dragged into one vile heap.
I’ll have it for you at the end of the week.
I have your unique disease.
I have nothing to harvest but for dry topsoil
and dead crunching stalks of skeletal wheat.