It occupies a small portion of

Unfinished land.

In a sector of a nearly finished product.

An aluminum can,

Surely bought for a bargain.

Shines,

In the sun,

So nicely.

 So nicely,

In the sun.

The can is empty,

But far from it.

This aluminum relic,

That would rival any sunken ship,

Home to so many deceased centipedes.

The can

Can only stand by

And observe,

Birds & balloons,

Floating above billboards and

Necessary sunsets.

The float the can was apart of

Was of the root-beer variety.

Although it’s carbonation long ago evaporated,

Plenty of invisible pressure still

Exhibits exuberance to the creeping weeds,

To the climbing ivy.

And it builds,

Like a city.

Like an explosion.

And one day,

Perhaps as so many

Other arbitrary possessions before it,

Before the time of the can,

As a monument,

As a grounded satellite .

Before the eastern origins of origami,

Reached western pizza-parlors,

(And soon terrorized napkins everywhere.)

This can,

Contained itself.

Contained it’s spirit.

In a way,

In such an unimaginable way.