Gravity made this planet, sucking in rock dust
And gas, which, pressurized, went round.
Reproduction is a gravitational force, too,
Attraction packing bodies together.
Regard the highway leading to the city,
The traffic jams itself in economic space,
Getting so close the vehicles can’t move.
The air grows thick, crowded with horns,
Meaning everybody breeds more, the rhythm,
Smell of each other’s flesh makes them
Want to do it—the resulting innocents are
Born in smaller and smaller apartments.
College students move in—six, seven to a room,
Like immigrants from freedom-crushing countries.
The breakfast food aisle is jammed with brands,
Some just invented that very day.
There’s so much choice no one can make one.
Already congestion contributes to entropy,
And if you stand around long enough
It will be impossible to leave; if not already.