ANOTHER INCONVENIENT TRUTH

I hear the Congo is beautiful this time of year.

Prudence, as well as justice, directs us to be fair and open in our dealings.

"Hey, Mike, is that a new EV?”

A radiant ant stands atop a mighty mountain, the supply chain churning, and surveys his kingdom—all this is done so Mike can purr quietly from Whole Foods to home and preen and preach. Mike consorts only with many other Mike’s, stamped, replicated on a dull factory floor, and his existence is impressive if you neglect the odor rising from under the bed as the kids blissfully rest.

“Gotta do my part, Jason. You know, the climate and all.”

In the valley below, a different kind of ant exists, scurrying, yoked, and dragging boulders with his bow-legged brothers and sisters, millions of them. Supplies are scarce, niceties no longer plentiful, so all labor on, even the pencil-thin women and their mewling broods, layered in stench and toxic dust. The elders in this clan toil, too—age is no excuse, and the wisdom they could share would be empty words for shrunken bellies.

“Did you hear they essentially use slave labor to mine cobalt for the car batteries? Smartphones, too.”

These disposable ants hunch and claw and pick at the shattered rock. They hump, lug, and heave, a quivering, agitated sea in the hollow carcass of a hardscrabble basin, bleached, gouged, and raped clean. Sleep comes later, and death more slowly.

“Can’t say that I have. Gotta run to the store. I’ll call you later. Take care, buddy.”

And those who have least of this Earth find a grave in it.