The Snag

My knees feel like they are full of wet sand.

The exhaust from the 42 bus hangs in the air,

clinging to the wool of my coat.

There is no grace in this.

The grey bag is caught on the wire,

a rusted barb through its throat.

It flaps with a heavy, wet thud

against the chain-link.

The plastic pulls tight,

turning white and thin as a scar.

It wants to be gone,

but the fence won't let go of the skin.