She held her phone up

She held her phone up

the way people do when they've decided

something means something —

slightly tilted, waiting

for the image to confirm the feeling.

The bag crossed the parking lot

in short, stupid arcs.

Caught on a cart return.

Let go.

Made it to the far lane

before the tire got it.

Nobody filmed that part.

The bag went flat under the wheel.

The car didn't feel it.

The woman walked away still scrolling,

probably captioning something

about impermanence.

I sat in my car eating cold fries

and thought about how the bag

was from a grocery chain

that closed three years ago.

How it had been living in this gutter

since before I moved here.

How the tire had no opinion.

The bag stayed flat.

The afternoon went on.

I finished the fries.

Nothing in it was beautiful.

That's all I'm saying.