Plastic Attachments

In the park, I see it,

a crumpled candy wrapper,

bright against the green,

every edge crinkled, soft—

yet how it gleams, with a shimmer of cheer,

a junkyard jewel that holds on, even here.

It catches my eye like a childhood toy,

a little remnant of joy,

tangled in grass, I think of how we cling—

holding tightly to the scraps we can’t throw away,

the plastic, a ghost of moments past,

and I remember hands that stretched out,

of laughter, half-remembered dreams,

yet now, the smiles feel plastic, fake,

clinging like leaves in the fall—

a season to discard, in a world made of plastic,

it’s funny how we all stick like glue,

a habit, maybe, in shades of neon blue.