The Coffee Cup Project

Becca Wild
I threw an invisible mug into the wall
and sipped the real mug in my hands. 
Only drunken men are permitted 
to commit inanimate-object violence.
Stuff of garbage can stubble and
asking sidewalk gum for shock-value mercy
shouting down imaginary ghosts towards 
the Wallkill River, beyond the red light.
Stuff of getting drunk and yelling at god.
Last ghost I chased outran me so fast
that I kept up with her and we didnít
go anywhere. Just sat there with nothing
to say and played with our hair. The
smell from my crotch was a shapeless
woman who sat between us as the same
braid played itself out over and over
in my fingers.
And I donít have any garbage can stubble.
I donít have unscheduled debates with the
bumpers of cars. I donít have bathroom 
doors to endanger, and I donít really have
nothing to lose but my Saturday night.
Instead I put my feet up on the couch of 
my ghost and hope she doesnít mind that
Iíve stayed this long. Hope that weíll think 
of something to say to each other soon. Eyes 
fixed on all the shit Iíve ever thrown in my life, 
still in my hands.