Would they be fluttering
thru mangrove leaves
like Spanish moss

would they be stacked
like chronic piles
in drawers of remorse

I wonder what they
would be like,
strewn on somebody else's couches
trampled on in stranger's houses
fed to eager fireplaces
or used to wipe some drunken faces

would they catch fire
in the cold of empty bottles
or would they drown in dusty attics,
locked in some forgotten diary

I wonder how they would sound like
choking under unmade beds
spread on the bottom of birdcages
rolled up to fit a blow-pipe
or wrapped around 5 pounds of squid

stapled to a wooden fence
cast about the chicken pen
torn to bits nearby the treadmill
or thrown into a storm

I wonder if

somewhere else
someplace else
and someone else

would have even noticed them.