Besides Those Stunning Space Photos, It’s All a Disaster

How can you understand yourselves
When, for instance, in a nation
Of a few hundred million selves,
Churning shifting combinations,

The only points of agreement
Seem to be the sense you are small,
That sensing so’s an achievement,
And that the world will hit a wall

Anytime now, apocalypse.
What everyone feels good about
Is staring into emptiness.
What everyone feels bad about

Is emptiness coming for you.
New space pictures of dying stars
Are cheery, not a sign of doom,
While the latest feuds down here are.

How can you understand yourselves,
Who get off on feeling so small
But absolutely loathe yourselves
For living as you live at all?