When the earthen season of fall arrives,
I fall with the leaves;
I don't descend in spiraling motions,
But drown easily
Into the fogginess of what's next.
Hopefully, the leaf that takes my place
Will make up for my err in the air.

Pompeo says just relocate,
Don't fret about the climate change,
The ice and fires that rearrange--
At any rate it's much too late.

Pompeii saw fire come raining down,
The melted earth run through the streets.
But we have new technologies--
They've parked the rockets outside town.

Today,
I am a
cadaver-in-waiting.
Cold, stiff and
ashen, I am
ready for
autopsy and entropy.