Cups

Cups
Standing there, next to the café
the garbage can straining under
all those cups: white ones, clear
plastic ones, tall colored glossy
things with soda names scrawled
on the sides.
Standing next to it, my
three year old daughter bites her
small lip, opens her eyes wide.
“So many cups, Mommy,” she
breathes, her voice small in the
cold, wet air.

“Yes.” I watch as a man jams
another one into too little space,
cursing the gray drops of latte
landing on his suit.
He hurries away.

The wind hits the plastic lid of his cup,
perched there, teetering, somehow
takes it off, skitters it across the
stained cement.

My daughter watches its
bird-like hop, captures it in her small
hands, finds a spot for it in the bulging
can.

—Kim Culbertson, copyright 2008

Cups

kimculbertson

Joined January 2008

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