am I?

I am a coffee-stained paper cup, waiting to be refilled.
I am an antique writing desk, with wood worn lovingly to a dusty sheen.
I am a bandana, a belt buckle, and a pair of boots,
Because the memories held in those are held also in me.

I am a blue cotton tee, still vibrant despite its age.
I am the hole in the knee of an expensive pair of denim,
Made more expensive by the placement of that hole.
And I am a post-it note, a bookmark, and a push pin.

I am a toy made in who-knows-where,
With pieces imported from across the globe.
I am the sparkles that beckon to you from the surf,
I am the waves that crash stubbornly onto the rocky shore.

But what else is there that I can be?
I am a ring of keys with no labels or markings.
I am an ink-full pen that just can’t seem to write despite the writer’s desire.
I am, somehow, a tired plant growing from that first paper cup, now filled.

The End

27 comments about this work Feed