It’s the red plastic cups
With the light frames and uniform
Which weigh heavy on my mind.
But not on yours, unsullied,
That thinks only of roots and how far they will travel.
How unfair to those truly a part of this world,
To be burdened by stray figures
Affixed to the passing of time.
Unless it is that pain you enjoy most
As you raise your red cup –
“A toast, to the disparate souls!
Stumbling an obscured path.”
All the while
We must shed skin to survive
And I must not think
Of my supine figure
And those unlovely cups
Which carry with them much more than party favours.