The State of Poetry

Down every shiny street is rain,
And in the deliciously dressed faces
There is everywhere pain,
And yet there's no expression,
No poems, in silent screaming into phones,
But here and there, in fingerprint hearts,
Some lines of Rupi Kaur
Are treated like the brows
Of Kendell Jenner,
As the holiest of objects,
What has worked so selflessly
To strip the last trace of its existence
And be fit for commerce,
The relentless execution of tasks.