Let Ride



We are souls, poured,

then frozen into the cracks

of coffee shops,

Chiseled free through our scribblings,

  thin and cracking confessions.


The girl in the tight, window-case dress

speaks above the folk-style band,

into her cell,

I’m at Kristen’s bad party,

while I listen, content in my jeans by the fire.


Public radio taught me that

trash, once alienated

from recyclables , collides

in a shared space,

for all things used,


despite our discernment.


Our theory of decay translates into

a lengthy process, a journey.

After twenty-five years,

plastic still protects guacamole,

 next to legible newspaper that your grandfather recycled,

cigarette burn still distinct.


Our  inheritance.


Yet water still filters itself through rocks and hills,

it moves and purifies.


Do washed-up shells with hollow sound

and scattered shine, gain value

only in your palm,

or upon your toilet tank?


From the shoreline where we dabble and yearn,

choose to skip me,


in this body of mystery.

Return me to where I belong,

a pebble,

beneath waves

and stars.


About Faye

I blog for 5 sites.
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