A Legacy in Words

here we sit as we always sit
me strangling
what you call an empty tin cup you
some somehow parasitic line pump
(plump slick silver black body)
hungry to gush your
gray verbal sick
& now I that tin filling of
your too soon to harden sustenance
until finally I overfill
with your satisfaction satiating
unctuous dribblings
leaking over my table
where my people like me feed
but your waste won’t banquet
only its speaker’s stuffed
see my own little cup bearer
open her small cavernous ear
& fill her face with what’s aired
I know now I too will be you
with my self-serving
morsels
but perhaps since I know
I’ll say we all slither
belly first this way
over the grandfather
clocks into shit
I’ll do my best to cease
to contribute to what you do
binding my mouth
with too tight tape
taking more in than letting out
’till I’m just another still snaked line
in the pit
hoping
raising the floors for those following
moving past plateaus you clutch