We hover
Our flying cars
What’s below?
What ruined planets
The columns plunge through the clouds
At their base
What piles of skulls
Heaps of ordure and offal
Neither Spacely Space Sprockets nor Cogswell Cogs are hiring
There’s only one hour of work, only two days a week
What teeming filthy naked masses still roil down there? Is there real dirt-
Is there any water left?  Salt, blood?
The automat makes whatever meal
Our robot maid has a vacuum attachment
Space is strangely empty
Except for the shopping
Except for the banks
Not everybody got a jetpack
Just a few of us have these flying cars
Most of us got left behind I suppose
Sometimes a little smoke rises
Sometimes things fall and nobody knows what then
Do you smell that?
What’s down there?
Are these columns secure?

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE the experience of having read this poem at your chosen value, and just like that, you are an exemplar of modern interwebs art patronage. Sincere thanks for your support!
~ Love, Nitro