Polyethylene

The wind tastes like exhaust and old pennies.

I’m grinding the grit between my molars,

waiting for the walk signal to flash white.

Across the street, it isn’t floating.

It’s caught on the rusted barb of the chain-link,

shredding itself in a frantic, plastic snap.

It sounds like a dog snarling at a chain.

Where the wire bit through, the film has stretched,

a thin, translucent neck of white, sickly skin.

It’s not a ghost. It’s a piece of trash

choking on the air, unable to fly or fall,

just flapping its lung-colored wings against the iron.