Busbin of history

Everyone is afraid
of collecting dust in a corner,
a forgotten nevermind
that could have been and should have been,
or simply a been instead of an is.
Once you fall into that dustbin, they say,
you are well and truly history.

But I would be happy finding myself in a busbin.
Covered in myriad juices, sour and sweet, both,
covered in lipstick that gently licked my corners,
because of the delicious offerings I carried to an eager mouth.
Arriving spotless and clean, at first,
and happy to leave dirty and used after.
And then I await gently with fellow deliverers of taste
to be clean again for another round,
and meet new faces,
new dishes full of anticipation,
new drinks, forbidden or otherwise.
I want to be gently twirled over with a lazy finger,
while someone looks another in the eye and offers a teasing taste
of more than what I have brought to their table.

I am a history acquired,
    one bite,
        one lick,
            one shameless breeze of fingers,
at time after delicious time.

Melih Sener