It's Just Litter

Someone photographed it.

Posted it. Three words: found poetry.

And I get it, I do—

the way it moved against the chain-link

like it had a point to make,

light coming through the white plastic

like it mattered, like it knew.

But then it tore free

and dragged across the parking lot

on its one ripped handle,

and caught on the drain grate

and went flat.

Half in the oily runoff,

half just sitting there.

A bag. Beige. The logo still legible:

Thank You Have A Nice Day.

Nobody photographed that part.

Nobody wrote three words

about the drain grate, the dark water,

the bag collapsed against the grate

like it lost an argument with itself.

I'm not saying don't look.

I'm saying look at the drain.

At the bag in it.

At the way it doesn't move

because there's nowhere left to go.