Credit: Abrie Fourie |
Through a window
While it rains?
There’s always a plastic bag
Maybe it’s white, maybe it’s black
But it’s always battered
Ripped in places
Being tossed around
By a wind so indifferent
It seems angry.
It doesn’t seem to care
That the bag was once useful
A thing of value
Maybe a quid, maybe less
…Something, at least
Something that made someone
Want to take care of it
Because that bag held
Tools or
Books or
Food or
Something invaluable
Like a man holds dreams
Like my mother held me
Until that bag stopped
Being useful
And it needed to be ditched
Maybe someone even tried
To recycle it
But their aim was bad
So the bag landed
In the wrong bin
And it ended up
In landfill
That’s when the wind
Caught hold of it
Like fate grabs hold of a man
Like love grabbed hold of me
Now it’s helpless
Doesn’t know where it’s going
Or how
Or why
It just is
Gulls peck at it
Debris pokes at it
Little by little
It loses bits of itself
For no good reason
Stretched till its torn
In all the wrong places
Like a man trying to hold it together
Like this fool, holding on to childish dreams
Is this why bags are made?
To end up
Molested by the wind
And battered by the rain
Being watched
By a strange man
Projecting his sadness?
Sometimes, I wonder if
The bag is staring back
Writing these words about me.