Give me something disposable

Give me something disposable, because anything permanent I will surely destroy. 

Give me something that can fall though the holes in my jacket, the same ones I wanted to sew up years ago. 

Give me something light enough to float away in a river, or heavy enough to sink down to the bottom, never to resurface. 

Give me something that will be ripped apart by time, making meaning a concept for fools. 

Give me a painting that lives in the rain, give me a recyclable bottle cap. 

Give me anything, anything at all, but do not give me your smile. 

Do not give me your laugh. 

Give me a leg, a finger, a toe, anything at all but that.  

As it’s those that will haunt me far into the morning.

And I would walk a thousand miles in a Wisconsin winter in a jacket with holes

rather than have to hold onto your permanence.