Ode To My Water Bottle
By Ash Carron
Oh, you little insulated cylinder of plastic, you.
You’re always right by my side when I need you.
Like those times when coach forced us to do sprints,
and I was on the edge of passing out.
But then I took a sip from your clear, rubber spout,
and my tongue was no longer as dry as a cactus.
Oh, you little insulated cylinder of plastic, you.
You somehow always come back to me.
Even after I leave you at the muddy, destroyed soccer fields
when the tournament has finally come to an end.
Even after I forget you under a bajillion covers
that mask my cloud of plush memory foam.
And even after somebody steals you from the crusty school bathroom
while I’m relieving myself in the black stalls covered in graffiti.
Oh, you little insulated cylinder of plastic, you.
Why must you make noises that sound like a whiny baby?
Especially when I’m trying to catch some z’s
after a long, obnoxious day at school,
or in the dead silence of class
when students are twiddling their thumbs
instead of focusing on the teacher lecturing us.
Not only do you make these abnormal noises,
but you’re high maintenance like my mom
who takes at least 2 hours before she’s ready to go out.
It’s like you’re a newborn baby that’s a magnet for germs.
Oh, you little insulated cylinder of plastic, you.
You’ve helped me through some rough times
including my puking episodes after sprinting the last stretch of a 5k,
and my persistent, everyday headaches
that never seem to go away even after taking 4 ibuprofen,
and the times when all I want is a few more cookies,
but you say, “Don’t do it, you’ll get fatter.”
So thank you, you little cylinder of plastic, you
for never leaving my side through my roller coaster ride of a life.
