I am seen as a bent can, in the canned produce aisle of a market
A risk that I will ruin a well thought out meal,
through internally damaged goods, or the belief that adding it to the other delicately refined produce, it will taint the dish.
But seen as a chance at discount, if willing to choose the bent, not broken.
I am seen as the forgotten traffic cone, moving from center street to forested ditch, by children and city workers
A risk to drivers under highway hypnosis,
by derailing them from where rubber meets asphalt and their forgotten path.
But seen as a chance at humor and incompetence for those who seek it.
I am seen as the dying family dog, resting where last placed.
A risk that those walking near with eyes closed,
might trip over shot nerves, corroding bone, and blind sight.
But still seen as inconvenient, as no glance, just glare, shoot towards remorse.
I try standing to remove myself,
but lies excuse emotion.