the wind and the gray whip the street and my car, as i park not well, because my passenger is right there and wants Speed, because Wind and Cold and Life
the hatchback trunk lifts and the wind whips in to catch a plastic bag and toss it to the sky
relieving it from my service, where it has lived for months, because california is a place where such things are paid for, and paying for things is something i try very hard not to do
the wind takes the bag high above the street, over the elevated train tracks, over the two lanes of busy road, and into the shopping center across the street
where it will start a new and terrible life as litter and sewer trap
and i want to chase after it, like a child after a balloon, like a man who is holding on to everything he can, even something as mean and small as a single plastic bag
while still seeing the moment where it flies against the sky as the new passenger blithely moves into the car as a moment of small art (very lower case)
in frozen time as i think of what to do next, as if there is any real choice othen than to
drive on, drive on, drives on, before someone calls me on my litter
and before the money that is in front of me floats away as well
(fin)
