Tin Can

Empty, like an old beer can on the roadside waiting, loitering, rusting.
Crushed and twisted from abuse, it’s been so long since its’ tinny lining
swelled with golden-brown liquid, making it full, whole, unused.  To
be held again in warm hands, cooling the flesh, gently, slowly, lovingly.
The beads of condensation sweat slowly dripping along the aluminum
sides from the chemistry, the heat, the human touch.  Longing
desperately for the wind to sweep it off the curbside, to help it find
its’ place, its’ home, in someone’s hands.


2 thoughts on “Tin Can

  1. Your poetry is always terrific my friend. Imagistic and always thought provoking.

    Enjoyed this one a lot. (Shame one can’t blip poetry.)


    1. Thanks Sean, you’re a love and I appreciate your comments very much. And, don’t you think that we blip a type of poetry every night? ❤

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