A seahorse grips a Q-tip in the gyre.
I double-tap and scroll a little higher.
My straw becomes a pelican’s last meal.
I swipe the knowing from my eyes; it can’t be real.

The glacier calves; I vote for cheaper gas.
We crown the con man, mow the burning grass.
I know the script. I read it anyway—
A smiling extra in my own decay.

We kiss with lips that have forgotten why.
You ask. I’m fine. We smile. We lie.
Your hand finds mine like muscle memory—
Two ghosts rehearsing who we used to be.

He watches the flood from forty floors above.
The bourbon’s good. The glass is thick enough.
A child’s shoe bobs by on the evening news—
He flips the channel. What else would he choose?

The pipeline bleeds where the aquifer ran dry.
A drone strike hums beneath a quiet sky.
We cracked the bedrock for the last of what was there—
The well is empty. So is every prayer.

My daughter asks me what the glacier was.
I show her photographs. She nods because
That’s what you do with fairy tales and myth—
I hold her hand. It’s all I have to give.

Author’s Note: Revised 12/29/2025