We’ve got smart fridges that send texts
 when the milk runs low—
 but children with ribs like xylophones
 whose notifications ping silently.

Billionaires blast themselves past the stratosphere,
 while solar panels on Earth sit like unopened gifts,
 collecting dust instead of electrons.

We want only organic produce from the store,
 yet we’ve lost the wisdom
 to see that salad is growing wild
 under our own feet,
 while we swipe cards for kale we could have plucked
 between the pine needles and the dandelions.

We binge entire seasons
 without leaving the couch,
 but can’t stomach the daily news—
 it doesn’t come with a laugh track.

We abolished slavery, then punched in again,
 nine-to-five chains stamped with corporate logos.
 Paychecks tether us,
 while stock tickers rise like an untethered helium balloon.

We dig and drill and suck the earth dry,
 as if oil were bursting like popcorn in a pan—
 but it takes eons for Earth’s kernels to pop.

We crave connection so badly
 we scroll at dinner with a friend,
 two pairs of eyes
 lit by the glow of strangers’ filtered lives.

We restrict our kids’ screen time
 while they stare at the backs of our phones—
 little mirrors of our own hypocrisy.

We complain about climate change
 as we board floating buffets,
 cruise ships trailing smoke like birthday candles we forgot to blow out,
 celebrating our own extinction in style.

And through it all, Mother Earth watches—
 like an elder with deep lines in her face,
 not surprised anymore,
just weary.

She knows the joke we don’t:
 harmony was never complicated,
 only inconvenient.
 We are not landlords here—
 just tenants with short leases.

She waits, patient as soil,
 for the day we remember
 we don’t own the future—
 we borrow it,
 and the interest is already due.