Ten empty cans of Dr. Pepper
are tossed into the bin
to be carried to the curb,
every one of them a discarded
You don’t know which one
you were draining yesterday
when you noticed that the last poppy
in the front yard had bloomed,
after all the others
had already dropped their crepe
and begun to turn to seeds.
If you could only remember now
how seeing it made you feel
young again, how you made yourself
a promise to play more guitar, drink more water,
eat better, love more carefully and with greater focus
on what comes after the loving is done.
You swore you’d look for hope
in the last place you’d seen it.
If you could find that one can
and hold it to your lips again,
pull one last warm and sticky drop from it,
you would remember.
But you don’t and you can’t.
All you see is that ten cans are empty
and only two are left in the fridge
for today. All you see is that you need
to buy more Dr. Pepper,
so you make a note of that
on the pad
on the refrigerator door
and go back to sleep.