The delicate crinkle
of a Sun Chips bag,
the kind that recycles,
and affords no guilt
and wilts like a flower -
gilded and gossamer.
A cloudy, brown
bottle of cheap
beer, rolled by
a steady squall -
ringing a deep hollow noise,
and cycling like Sisyphus.
A neglected New Yorker -
its prolix pages,
swelled into sails
by an insouciant gale,
flashing a cartoon flag -
flattened by a foot.
A leaning tower of
ashes, the remains
of a lipped Pompeii -
with pillars of smoke
whisked and stoked
by a stray, sagacious wind.
I let loose a wrapper
from my extended hand (nest),
and it ascends like a bird,
then plummets and lands
on the unapologetic pavement -
with the rest.
It is about littering.
