there's a walmart bag
tumbleweeding down my street
that feels as if it should be going
unnoticed but I see everything
like some silly American Beauty shit
casually hyperfocusing on
small moments & creating futures
where you goin, bag?
he's moving with a free flowing purpose
towards main street, filling with wind
collapsing, reinflating like some little
rubbish sea creature, laying low for a
moment until a car stirs up his air &
sends him back on his garbage journey
he's early, purposely holding back
but she's already waiting for him under
the bridge, a curvy little six pack ring,
loops stretched & broken, her newness
long gone, but he's ripped in spots, too.
neither of them see these scars, only that
they're both of the same plastic
the greatest trash love story ever told