The Blip

It’s an empty

scratched bottle of pop

idling by the back street

waiting for life’s unscrupulous hand

to scoop it up,

whisk it off to the recyclers

like moldy spider web

clutching disused newspapers

it will patiently stay put,

like a page

carrying on it’s romance with the dust

rather than fuel a callous fire

or worse still,

flee from some frantic sailor looking for love

get torn to bits by the irked waves

ending up on a beach

frail beneath the shingle

lying in limbo

deaf to the roaring sea

the swooping gulls

the majesty of it all