Own What You Owe

You own the warm mittens

in your hands,

the cool kicks

on your feet;

You own the pendant

in front of your chest,

the headphones

behind your neck

You own the home built upon

dirt-cheap earth

that you call real estate,

the planes slicing through the sky

that only you get to regulate.

You own the natural gas

of which every ounce you calculate,

the factory propelled by the streams

in which every step you automate,

chlorinate,

decimate,

dissipate;

devastate,

estimate,

exacerbate,

then aspirate

and turn it into

Coffee Mate

next to the dinner plate.

Then you send them,

on ships you own,

built with the very Earth

you dug up;

and sell them,

along with water

bottled with the very essence

of the planet that you burn -

the planet you call home -

the home you apparently own.

You are the captain of your soul,

you are the owner of the world.

Yet the only thing you do not own

is what you owe,

and the only thing you have not sold

is your soul.