orphan napkin at the cafe
with a telephone number smeared on me
in your voyeuristic lipstick color
or lonely notebook page
enumerated, like an incomplete sentence
one of my silly poems from my stupid heart
in roller ball ink, to you
If not, then a newspaper airplane
but all curled up in a ball
wrinkled, thrown and kicked around on the cold linoleum
or flying on the dirty sidewalk
amongst cars and shoes and dog shit
But my destiny, I guess
is in the butcher's bloody garbage can
perhaps an Evangelist Republican
bible thumper and morose
But it could be worse
much worse
I could be picked up by some tree hugging
granola eating, Subaru driving, Birkenstock wearing
Seattleite lesbian hippie named Sally
only to be recycled into a Starbucks coffee cup
If I was a piece of paper
I'd much rather be a tissue
and die, drunk and drowning
in your Nile of tears
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