There are social laws that come without precise equation,
Axioms that offer just provisional confirmation,
Like this one about possessions:
Take one of any type and it is destined to become some
Which becomes many which becomes too many,
Eventually, just like that.
It’s driven by a curiosity and yearning worthy of Tennyson’s Ulysses,
But writ small enough to match our narrow-minded, domestic aspirations,
And it isn’t possible to even want to know just where to stop.
A solitary book comes with sequels: the book shelf,
The book case and book cases, then random piles of books,
And who can find anything anyway?
A tool constructs a tool box, a work bench, a workshop,
Then deconstructs into clutter,
And who can even do much work in that workshop?
This Hubbloid multi-verse expands,
If not heroically, if not miraculously
It still has a bravado, it has a loaves-and-fishesness to it,
And the nets are breaking.
So time it is for scientific devolution
And a simple and contracting universe,
Its axiom: Downsize,
An eminently common-sensical resolve to finally live
Within limits, of one’s space and time:
Too many gets reduced to many and then to some, eventually,
That’s how it goes,
Duty and destiny properly fulfilled just like that,
Just like, in multi-senses, Tennyson’s Telemachus.
