Poem 86

very glad to be seeing family soon.
I am a paper cup on a string.
Serenaded by breezes,
these are the words of the wind in my ear.
A paper cup on a string.
Thinking. Thinking. Thinking of home.
Of where the string leads, where the whispers go.
Fed wire side into a mason jar with a cotton cloth lid
checkered and still smelling of plums.
Sifted through the salt pepper shaker on the far corner
table of the old pizzeria down south side by the freeway.
In the cracks of a half renovated historic building
stripped with demolition tape for the morning.
With the moisture on the underside of a letter
carrying apologies for trespasses since forgotten.
I am a paper cup on a string.
And suddenly I’m not sorry I can’t bear to keep a secret.
Not sorry to wear the word like a weave. Believing then
That it was a flaw, a worry to send the whispers home.
Home again home again zip line amnesia. I am
A paper cup on a sting. And this is home. We are going home.