They want it to be a sign or a movie

They want it to be a sign or a movie,

something graceful turning circles in the air.

But this one is stuck.

It’s caught on the black thorns

by the pharmacy’s back door.

The wind is trying to rip it free

and it makes a sound like a wet hacksaw.

The handle is stretched thin and white,

a throat pulled tight against the branch,

choking on its own cheap weight.

It’s just a scrap of milk-colored trash,

clinging to a dead bush in the rain,

shuddering because it has nowhere else

to go but further into the dirt.