A plastic bag is roosting on the roadside bush
Trying to fly away, its wings flapping nervously
Flushed with wind, a color rag, a whiff of presence
A temporary ally to temporary grass and its flies.
It is yearning to degrade, die a permanent death
To embrace mortality of long standing, to return
To the dark coziness of a loving mother’s womb.
But there are no graves, only short-term abodes.
There seems no way of finding way back to home.
