The Cloud Factory
Smoke billows out
In thick dark tunnels.
My young cousins shout
This is the building
The building that makes clouds.
If i could reach
Far enough to touch
I’d find that in each
Only toxic fumes
Would reach my little hands
This grimy building
Not a single cloud in it
Just small plastic trinkets
To be used for a minute
Before being discarded
In the ocean
An island of filth
Toys, trash, and tidbits
Choking the creatures
I see in my picture books
This poem is about:
Our world