Cobwebs, dust, flaking
paint, goldenrod blooming
through skeletal above-ground
pools, saplings pushing

through the rusted frames
of antique cars. Without
descendants who care,
all traces of us disappear

in less time than a fallen
tree decays—in fact,
even before we die sometimes.

Who are these people
in these black and white
photographs? Did they
lie awake and worry?

Did they get their hearts
broken? Did they think
any of this would last—forever?

– Rich Heller