THE CRUMPLED CAN
Its overwhelming worthlessness,
Yes, that was it,
A worthlessness so complete,
I could not...somehow...pass it by,
The very vastness of it halting me,
Filling up my eye.
It lay, a cast-off thing,
In shallows by the bay,
An object tossed about
In an extremity of nothingness,
Age and battering hiding everything
That might tell from where it came...
Just the merest trace of color left
To show it once had brightness known,
The touch of hand,
The fact that it had...once...contained
A usefulness in someone's eye.
How long it sat there in the sand,
Dented, mashed by passing life,
Was far beyond revealing,
And who knew
What coming wave
Would wash it out to sea.
It brought so clearly to my mind
People I had also seen
Living on the heating grates of life,
Bundled in their heavy lostness,
Like this can,
Lying on the concrete, not the sand,
As the world of busy folk
Pass quickly by,
Seeing nothing but the dents
Never thinking once upon a time
A brighter paint, a certain fullness,
Had ever been...
Once upon a time.
Jo Anzalone Feb. 17, 2007
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