12:32, Coming Ashore

Twelve thirty two p.m.

The sun, squidged past noon,

begins its daily descent

rolling down the slope of the day

to crash headlong into night,

only to roll up again tomorrow.

Heat bakes this bit of earth,

this minute, like a meal in a microwave oven.

There’s not enough ozone aloft (anymore)

to deaden the blows of ultraviolet rays.

Rays that cut through air and water,

bury themselves in the sand like unexploded missiles.

Sunlight explodes over us like an uncapped oil geyser

spraying out over desert sand.

Scalded,

we seek respite in air conditioned cars,

drive to air conditioned buildings.

The electricity is generated from nuclear reactors

and coal-fired boilers that draw cooling water from rivers and oceans.

Water glows in sunlight

along the shore.

We’re up to our arse in trouble.

We’ve lost our heads.

Can’t put a finger on a probable solution.

We can scarcely diminish pressure on the accelerator

that throttles us toward oblivion.

A crowd of foolish plastic mothers, prodigal petroleum sons.