On a slightly lighter note than recent circumstances have permitted:–
Oh simple cylinder:
You have not changed; you are constant,
you are the brown paper bulwark I have always known;
unstamped, unnamed, unmottled;
you do not come in a fresh multitude of seasonal colours;
you have not been plasticised, imbued with essence of potpourri, lavender
or 16 other fresh new fragrances that will have my friends
wondering how they slipped behind in the racing cargo cult;
you do not offer coy shelter to special offers or once-in-a-lifetime opportunities
to scorch the planet in flight to ever more indistinguishable destinations.
Without fanfare or hesitation or hope of recognition,
you simply give invisible and unfailing support,
as do all the world’s real heroes.
Unwrapped and shredded on soil, you do not fight death
but yield perfectly to oblivion — or kindergarten craft.
You are neither new nor improved, your humility has not yet been torn
from you by the greed of others;
you are, without pretence, just perfect.
[this doesn’t really work as a poem as the humour is trampled by earnestness, so it’s posted as socioeconomic commentary!]