Not Floating, Just Stuck

They call it dancing, don't they?

That scrap of film, caught on a rusty wire.

But it's just stuck there, frayed and gray,

fueling no artist's false fire.

It flaps, a greasy takeout shroud,

against the fence, a pathetic thing.

No grace in that, no moving cloud,

just trash, a broken, plastic wing.

Smeared, maybe, with some yesterday's grease,

a stain that won't ever wash clean.

It doesn't fly, it finds no peace.

It's just a snagged, unwanted scene.