On first hearing of the Anthropocene, but not yet knowing what it was

It's very sunny this morning
there's spring in my steps
until I realise that you're flying to Cuba -
look, there you are, trailing cloud -
but at least there's still a lot of day,
so much day, in fact.
This is how it feels, walking home as everyone
else is on their way away.
I am getting close, though
you are getting farther away
but not less close, right.
I'm living all of these assurances.
There is always a sunny break and
the prospect of poetry, until the
clouds come and everything gets tired.

Dad asks me if I'll go to a lecture on faith
and climate change this evening. 'I can't,
but let me know what they decide.'

There is a dusky harlequin finding its feet on the windowsill;
half-eaten by dust, it can only take off on
to its side. Within seconds of being blown back
up, it's on its wings again. I can never get a lady
bird fully upright, and though I would love it,
I can't stretch this out into a short story.

Checking departure listings to find your flight,
I'm imagining how excited I might be to be preparing for
a BA flight to Moscow at 8.40 am.
This kind of thing is exactly why I am grounded.
My Wikipedia history will never be anything
other than poem fodder.

A notification tells me it's less than one minute until
my alarm, Get the first shave, will sound.
'Do you think you will ever satisfy any of your ambitions?'
I ask myself as the countdown continues.