If I could write a poem today with hope
I’d fit in all the trees and birds and bears—
all animals, the skies and seas and air,
republicans, the middles, and the woke
would have their places too, and right beside
them all are you and I and puffer fish
and coral reefs, the nudibranch and nudist.
Ebbing, high, or slack: it takes all tides
to plump up where the moon is. Here’s the thing:
We’re screwed. We’re doomed. We’re toast. We’ve effing ruined it.
Nobody’s coming. Revelations shit.
The planet’s better off without our sting.
The best that I can do in terms of hope
is that the human race will soon be smoke.
[Prompt: Write a poem about hope]