Disposable Thoughts

With a flick of my Bic, your butt
and the grasslands are disposable,
like diapers, batteries,
paper plates and Dixie cups,
like paper napkins, tampons,
newspapers and butter tubs.
We are cameras
and cell phones.
I thought to call you.
I have your number, but I lost your name
in a Christmas card.
Disposable: trees, wrapping paper
and dead rappers. Tupac.
I never listened to his music, anyway.
Like vinyl records, we are albums. LP.
We are gas.
With a flick of a Bic, we are disposable.
Old maps, postcards,
we are a dozen dried up roses.
We are daylilies
and plastic razors.
We are sandwich bags.