CHEWING GUM
The seven-year-old, her long, blonde hair ponytailed neatly,
Opened her small mouth, as fragile as a butterfly, as if to speak.
On her bottom lip she balanced a pale green drum of chewed gum.
Robust in its elasticity, firm in its consistency,
Unable to decompose or atrophy to the point of oblivion,
It was made to last for as long as a jaw can masticate
And the earth revolve around the sun.
From a short distance, a man, woman and two teenagers,
Smiled back at their young one as her lips parted
And the pellet of gum fell to the pavement
Where it stuck, tenacious as a synthetic slug,
Her teeth marks fresh, her spittle still glistening on the indentations,
Denoting ownership. As I walked past
She stepped over it. There was no accusation or remonstration,
She was uncorrected by anyone. It was as if
She was learning litter as a way of life. Ahead of her stretch years
Of tossing tin cans out of car windows, crisp packets
Into the swell of our garbage scow rivers,
Bottles into fields of sheep and municipal herbaceous borders,
And sticking gum beneath every seat she ever sits on.
