My Favourite Drink Bottle Poem by Alana Hamilton

The well-used bashed-in drink bottle perched upon the desk.
Frayed cap in all.
Desleeved it is
Standing naked, tall, mimicking a statue of actual value.
Its plastic rutted. Like that of a golf ball.
Refracting light, a precious opal it wasn't.
Deforming the background like some nuanced, pompous postmodern artwork.
Crunching, crackling, popping with every sip.
Just longing for an embarrassing situation.
"I need to replace it" thought I, with every toxic gulp.
Yet conveniently forgetting it every time I shopped.
At Least it doesn't leak.
That stupid blasted thing.