To Rally Beneath an Alley

Bowling in an azure sky
with clouds of cotton wafting by,
each hung by threads from up on high—
but do we wonder why?

White pins of plastic capped with red
are less elastic than the bed
of sky beneath and overhead—
does this portend some dread?

Is each one filled with toxic waste
we sent to heaven, far-displaced
from oceans which we’ve so defaced
that life on Earth’s erased?

Will each cloud-like cotton ball
absorb the leakage of their gall
which we can drop behind a wall
in hopes our fate will stall?

Of course, if there’s no bowling ball
to make its strike and shatter all,
perhaps they’ll float away, not fall,
and therefor save us all.

Can all our poisons be encased
so safely that we can’t be maced—
or better yet, their sources all traced,
each toxin be replaced?

To Rally Beneath an Alley

If caps were green, it might be said
that there’s no danger up ahead,
but red’s a sign that we’ve been led
where angels fear to tread.

Will we rejoice or wail and cry
the day we wonder, with a sigh
how closely had our doom come nigh—
that’s if it passes by.