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You're a sherpa wearing CDs around your neck, tending four-headed bullsheep around a maze of crumbling skyscrapers that've grown tired of standing and now rest on the ground. From horizon to horizon the ground is littered with rusted girders and burnt out metal pillbugs and piles of garbage. Tall grasses hide the lids of tin cans still sharp enough to cut calloused feet.
You wear sandals made of old tire rubber. Your bed is made of milk bags and your house is an overturned semi-trailer.
You wonder if things will change, if someday the stars will dim because the Earth will be filled with its own lights, lights that once hung from rooftops and from maypoles and from the windows of every brick ranchero home. Nothing left of AC humming and kettles boiling, TVs blaring lights and colors from foreign corners.
You step on some chicken wire. You can mend your fences now. A bag of Funyuns turned inside out, still reflects the evening sun, dances over your feet. Weeds shoot out of pavement cracks, you run your hands over their wispy seeds.
You'll get used to it. Just do your stuff.