Somewhere a box was made (a cardboard clam shell to-go container) which traveled a great distance - from tree to factory to truck to a neatly stacked pile on the back shelf of the 17th street cafe - whose fate was to hold my piece of spinach quiche only once.
That everything bears us, holds us up, giving completely and without exception from what it is. How we take these little lives without thanks. And throw them away just as thoughtlessly.