Plastic Cup in the Subway

“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.

Outside.
Wherever they are going.