The Last Idea

Had we known they were finite,
We might have rationed them better,

Like tins of sardines
Or immaculate crackers.

When the last breakthrough was
Is anybody’s guess.

Dry spigot, who could have thought
Thought’s end?

The generators
Wound down.

Still water wears a green beard.
Vehicles clot the freeways

Like syllables
In a parched throat

As one by one, empires dribble away,
Reclaimed by native grasses.