Grace is a plastic bag,
being provoked by a packed parking lots shifting winds.
All this whipping, twirling, twisting and turning,
is concerning its burning yearning
to dissolve all its burden
in a dance with itself
in a time that has no tendencies.
All this bag sees is the moments of these.
Its moments of ultimate ease.
The bag pleads not to be harnessed
with the restraints of garments or supermarket products.
The bag needs to be free like ducks in a man made lake.
Now, does the bag partake in these actions for its own sake?
Or does the wind make the bag mimic its slightest movements
like a marionette to a person with a puppet for a pet?
Does the wind tell the bag where to go?
Or is the bag resisting the winds insistence
to have everything be swept up and
off into the distance?
Should the bag just lay lazily on its back and
not react to the packed parking lots confused breathing pattern?
Should the bag just conform to the norm
and get stuffed with so much stuff
and treated so rough,
that its seams eventually bust or split,
or its handles break and someone gets rid of it?
Now what kind of life would that be to live?
A plastic bag it may be, in actuality.
But for some strange reason,
I see me.