“A poem about a plastic cup in the subway, in the perspective of the cup.”
I move and toss my body round. No impulse in my control. No search. No quest. No problems pushed or passed. Simple rolling through the subway cars.
I feel only what is pushed from me to the ground. Gravity is holding me to something. I have no punctuation when I smack the sides. I live nothing somewhere doing what is done. I have no truancy of flesh because I was rewritten long ago.
Oceans of people stray around me. An unending pause to purpose. It’s in me. I am the childish waiting- unsifted trash. Because I am plastic bone And I am and I am. Here and here.
See me without frame crunched on the floor until I am picked up. And I will feel the shade without sunlight, crescent soft moon.