MLA format
is cruel
to the trees.
Those pale promises
of untouched space
on the backs of papers

Washing dishes one by one
is hurtful
to the water supply.
Every bowl
a new wash
instead of pouring the soap from one to another.

The flame atop the tower
is scorching the atmosphere.
Potent natural gas
emitting greenhouse gases into the air
when it ought to be powering homes.

It is this last
that sparks me.
The oil rig enflames me.
It seems so vast
turning the others into drops in a bucket.
The waste is a magnifying glass
focused on me,
forcing me to burst into flame.

And I focus on that flame,
wavering, shifting shades
I focus on that familiar sight
once a comfort
now an provocation.

It is so simple
to make use
of that gas.
Perhaps not to its full potential;
but it is child's play
(truly, for I dreamt this solution)
to burn the intangible power
as fuel for a steam generator.

Graceless, inelegant, clumsy,
but its something.
Something needs doing.
Our home is dying,
and we,
benefactors of the giving tree,
are placing fires in the sky.



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