pm poetry

Oat milk lattes frothed
in throw-away cups,
paper and plastic stuffed
with purchase,
and chiming boutique doors—
what’s it all for?
Every one of them
is in a hurry
to go nowhere,
to do nothing.
“I would, but…“
Words like a growth
in our hive mind—
not benign,
malignant.
Cells of inaction multiply,
and they go on buying,
convinced they’re good because
“they would, but…“
they wouldn’t.
And even if they did,
I’m not so sure anymore
that it’d make
the slightest
difference.