Flare

Someday we will drink from only
rain puddles, and all the jail broken
software of the last fifty years
will mold over in our memory.

All the screens in Times Square
will have their final pornographic
images burned into them
now censored by the ivy
growing over them.

Many will collapse
in the hot street
guts sagging
unable to inflate.
The sick, handcuffed
to their bed rails,
left in swirling wind.

Far off from then,
two teenagers who
have never heard
an engine start
will wake up beside
each other,
sleeping in the weeds
of some lost hillside,
and see a fire rage
below them
in the valley where
the grass dries out
so easily.