All Foil Poem by Douglas Scotney

We're living in a world that's getting gradually hotter,
in which all alive might die at once,
like cane toads brought to the boil.

There are pockets
where a company can foul the air
and not be called upon to care
when the weather
concentrates its air
and brings on an earlier toll.

In these pockets
you die before all alive come to the boil:
which they might,
live they in clean air or not,
for we're all
this type of company's foil.