Outside the diner glass

Outside the diner glass,

between the brick and the gray.

A square of something,

almost nothing.

Plastic wrap, a discarded skin,

tangled on a bare hawthorn branch.

It shivers in the draft,

almost invisible,

a ghost of groceries.

It catches the flat light

and disappears.

Then reappears, crinkled,

stuck.

Like a thought I can't quite hold,

or let go.