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PoemApril 11, 20261 min read

Thoughts of a Rusted Can (In the Forest)

A rusted can wakes in the forest, forgetful and eroding, until its private confusion turns into a meditation on time.

Ugh Grumble, Grumble

How did I get here? My long, deep slumber prevents me from remembering but my rusty skin tells me I've been here for a while.

How do I retrace my steps? Is it up or down, left or right, where I came from?

I've just now started noticing the chips in my body. I wonder if an animal chewed it off from me.

What's an animal? How do I remember that?

I guess I know enough from my time in this earth.

Time? Is time an animal? I'm just being slowly devoured by time.

Aren't we all?

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