The Center Cannot Hold

Alas, poor Yorick

Are we supposed to water the garden
During the apocalypse? 
I listen to songs my favorite popstars wrote
On their private jets, consider how deeply to 
Wash the berries when my blood seethes
With microplastics, the dog next door keeps
Barking, barking, barking;
Alas, poor Yorick, just
Shut the fuck up. I water 
The yellowing pumpkin leaves
While the ash of someone’s living room 
Floats by my face. It’s not my house,
Not my neighborhood, but the air permeates,
Are we supposed to keep watering? 
We debate what show to watch 
But I’m not sure Veronica Mars or Liz Lemon 
Knows this world we’re sitting in. 
Are we supposed to keep sitting? 
Are we supposed to continue on, 
Washing the dishes, listening to music,
Teaching the children to read? 
Hope is a thing with feathers 
But I watched as the crows caught the wind,
A force pushing them back. 

It was strange how they looked:
Suspended. But they pushed and 
Eventually 

Flew.