The Earth is hungry.
Down by the train tracks,
her smooth skin ripples and buckles
until her lips part.
She swallows the rusty railroad spikes.
She gobbles up the old rubber tire.
She devours the discarded work boot, ankle first.
She slurps up the dusty cheetah-print blanket like a limp noodle.
Something resembling a flashlight sinks into her gaping maw.
She drinks deeply of the shimmering oily water until her skin cracks.
We proudly call things “man-made.”
Yet we’re just borrowing them.
Despite our arrogant defiance,
they all return one day
to the Earth.