Trash

I’ve wondered now for quite awhile

Where is this place we call “away”?

It must be big and vastly vile,

Perhaps like hell from old Dante.

Each day we throw away our trash

That no one wants. We let it go.

There’s paper, cans and blackened ash;

All junk and such we've tossed heave-ho.

Gigantic piles of useless stuff

In bins and carts and plastic bags.

Some folks will horde more than enough,

And often toss good clothes as rags.

Someday there may be no more space

To put the stuff we toss away.

What then of us, the Human Race,

Do we get tossed as our doomsday?