A Brown Paper Bag In a Parking Lot
A pregnant bulge
with an angular stretch and twist,
something firmer than a sandwich.
A dirty diaper?
Bundles of illicit dollar?
I once found a dead parakeet
wrapped in a discarded paper bag,
when I dropped it in disgust
its head lolled out,
one dull eye fixed upon
the space I had just left.
The paper is mottled
by damp roaming winds,
stained as if hands had clutched it
too long.
It's not time yet to be a scavenger,
but in a few moments
I might nudge the bag with
a hesitent toe.
Or I might return later,
sneak under the low clouds,
that often gather
when something too big
to be left behind –
is left behind.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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