Plastic bag...

wind grabs you by the hand
and spins you unexpectantly
madly spinning, euphoric
such luxury is foreign
to your cellophane skin

often, you hide in corners
along busy streets
near people enslaved by time
calling them filthy names as they pass
like some misunderstood bastard

days coming and going--
a battle between light and dark
a tedious mundanity you've
learned to love--

and neither joy nor pain
tend to find you in these cracks
amidst the dust and broken leaves

until this wind reaches down
and tickles you
like a luxurious golden feather
and stubbornness is lost; even forgotten

you're free to
FLY.