I DON'T RECYCLE

I’m going to die before Earth is a sty. When the ice caps melt, when the ocean temperature goes up ten degrees, my ashes will be spread across the sea. When New York is under water, I’ll be six feet under. I have no children; I don’t like yours. I’ve seen lots of animals. (The polar bears starving; the unendangered wolves, hunted with planes; dolphins netted with tuna, the latter feted with mercury. Temporary thing, mammals. Fish. And bees. ) You didn’t like me. Here, then, for you, is an SUV, water bottles, oil, glorious cans, devices to save time (all the rest of time is mine). Aprés moi, le déluge. Literally. I’m going, babies, and I’m taking you with. You, dear heart, just signed my suicide list.