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Spy what you will in the world.
Whether, it takes the form a fine vase, or a tawdry magazine,
I find myself wondering what the archeologists will find of us,
Two thousand years from now.

Finding places lost underneath the sea or perhaps,
Its Lost beneath the broken and scattered concrete jungles.
Waiting for you, behind every turn, is a new danger.
“Watch out,” for falling objects, the branches go up high.

There are so many of these little loops,
Normally in sixes sometimes eights,
Minor variations within the whole,
Perhaps they were currency.

The primitives left roads and signs behind,
To mark where they had been and what it contained.
Some symbols to this day we know better then to intrude.
A slow burning death is behind the magenta trefoil.

Remember this if nothing else,
Out of everything we ever do,
Our garbage is what our future will see,
Do you really want them to find your PVC panties?