The beer, finished before the guzzler takes off from the parking lot,
Can't be bothered to throw it out,
Yet courteous enough not to just chuck it,
Toss it haphazard, crushed, to clatter against the dark blacktop.
No, place it upright, carefully on the yellow-painted line
Like a tiny monument to fermented drink,
Untouched in an empty flat plain
Glimmering from a stadium light glow, corona, crown.
Saddening to think
Eventually it will be kicked, sent soaring somewhere far and cold
Or worse yet, given no such glory
But merely tossed to lay crumpled among trash.