but it was a plastic bag. The song it sang was not rare,
but beautiful, as it swooped towards me,
its skin aged, its parents in Ohio, I was relieved
at the way it levitated in the face of wind, the way
someone called it ugly, called it nothing, how it sighed
and offered itself to their window—and how might
it change if the bag had the word LUNCH spelled out
in big block lettering? If you thought it was hollow,
but inside was a note that said LOVE, MOM,
and a picture of one adult ox leading a calf across
a river, and before it said LOVE, MOM,
it said NEVER FORGET—and the bag was wet with
who knows, the instant vomit of any unnamed liquid,
so we never even know if there was a card like that,
I’m not looking. And me too, you fucking bag.
Who said sing? Still, I thought you were a bird,
still there was a moment, one moment,
where I was positive I was happy to see you,
where I wasn’t so desperate for a nap.
And if you are a bird, it was me who was mistaken,
me who calls his parents too much. I’d be happy
to welcome you onto my boots for a minute because
I’m outside now, and searching, bird. I’m not
withered or hollow or filled with cards, you metaphor
for nothing. I’m not used up or discarded. I’m not
a receptacle for something lovelier than myself.
I’m not flying towards a window desperately
singing the only song I know how to sing,
as fast as I can, and praying it opens.