Plastic Cup

A plastic cup rolls back and forth on the road, in rain and hail it bends to climate,  drowning in discard.

It once, however brief, touched the lips of our tumultuous race and holds our atomic breath dear.

Now, Monstrous branches cultivate over its brittle frame in the night

Sweeping it into a shadowy blanket of insects and rotting resin, an endangered weed amongst the landscape scream.

As I glimpsed this particular cup at speed, unable to fully acknowledge its passing life, I myself am plunged into deep thought, as if this object holds something belonging to me, something only I can see.

Does the cup know me, did it see my blurry face and remember my vacant stare, I think it knows me, the scared tormented, surrendering to hostile elements.

My reflection is this forgotten object, forgotten by all that was, and is.