Is there anything that symbolizes a lost moment so poignantly as a fallen beer can? It’s quiet luster shining from beneath the heavily tread path under the gray sky of a Saturday morning. For you, my love, a poem:The infant sun glances sharply off
Your shining silver skin.
The glistening seems to beckon me
In the misty morning dew.
There you are, only a short time removed
From your great and final hour.
Now only litter and trash to passersby,
But to me, you still had power.
You seemed to speak of the night before
When revelers had their fun.
Their voices loud, their language coarse,
Greeted you as you left your box.
Finally, your defining moment near,
That for which you’d been created.
You nearly cried as they passed you out,
You were feeling so elated.
They popped you open and had their fill
Much faster than they should have.
They drained your blood, your utility,
Then crushed you, already forgotten.
You felt the last drops leave your mouth,
Vented, so pure and smooth.
But they fell upon the muddy ground,
Wasted on a small legume.
So here you lie, a skeleton,
A shell of your too-short glory.
No one cares enough to bury you,
To dump you in a trashcan.
But I will give you one last caress
And lay you in black lining.
A hero’s funeral, among your brothers,
Rest well, beer heaven now is calling.