Baby Solo Cup
Tucked into the side of the dune
without a lullaby tune this crisp pink
shell half-filled with sand but not
of the sea, no, a thin plastic vessel
baby-sized at six ounce-ish, not big
not red, not soused with brew, its hue
the sweet baby rose of strawberry milk-
shakes and fuzzy bunny slippers--
a Crayola carnation sensation
that looks almost innocent
I picture the little polluter-in-training
taking one last sip, a small sticky
hand loosing its grip, the red-juice spill
of sugar punch washed away by rain
cup tumbling free in the sea-whipped
wind until lodging here in this fine grainy bank
next to slender strands of long green grass
I consider picking it up, or taking a picture
of it but I am already past, pedaling fast
Instead I vow to remember to find it
on the way back, but remembering becomes
forgetting and later becomes tomorrow and one
dune looks so much like another that this baby
Solo cup never resurfaces, which is the sad
way of wind and sand and humans and cups
though I know it must be out there somewhere
for the next hundred years, or so--perhaps you
or one of your children's children will find it
before the sea turtle does: consider its naive gullet
its gently waving fins, its eyes that blink like ours
– Moira Trachtenberg