Dropping the Ball

I'd write the world
if I had the chance
and ask how it was going.

Just to see
really, if she were paying attention,
if the storms
or the big waves
washing
hard over us

really meant anything at all.
I think sometimes it's just a dream
she's having or a small bit
slightly hinting of negligence.

Woudn't it be strange to wake up
one day in the cold heat
of the morning and
stark naked realize: like that moldy cup,

the one there on the coffee table,
you've been forgotten along with us all?