Poem 20150624

we are the men made of paper
we scribble our lives
in permanent marker
on our arms and legs
until it bleeds through

we yellow in the sun
are stained by a parade
of coffee cups
we are folded up
tucked into back pockets
forgotten like grocery lists
and sent through the washing machine
and the dryer
and turned into little paper bricks

forensic scientists and archeologists
will puzzle over us
if they can decipher us
we paper men
in a thousand years
they will conclude that we worshipped
only ourselves