Sonnet for my Future Thirst Traps

When “spit in my mouth” falls out of fashion

we will say: spread me out on the dewy

grass, make of me your picnic blanket, a

thin whisp between you and the earth that would 

swallow you whole like a tart on the tongue,

powdered sugar dusting the strawberries.

We’ll say: crumple me, your too-long receipt, 

ignore me like the survey on the back,

forget me until tax time, then regret.

Call me garnish, call me parsley, call me

the bay leaves you remove before serving.

Call me the buckling aluminum walls

of the soda can you crush, carelessly.

We’ll say: litter; we’ll say: prostrate, breathless.