Today I am a Bag Discarded in the Street

Today I am a bag
discarded in the street –
just emptied of an ounce-point-five of pork rinds –
fried – with zero grams trans fat.
I glitter in the winter sun and crackle
underneath the feet
of indiscriminately stomping people,

whomps of whose great bombs
of random weight
are rather interesting.
As a species of clear nerveless cellophane
I feel no pain, but do
experience a sort of devolutionary
change from flat to crinkled to ripped large disbanding

shreds: it’s rather like
I’m sprouting many heads –
discursively pursuing entropy.
Anonymous quick hands retrieve the bits of me –
and drop them into meshed confines
of garbage can. A plastic Coca Cola bottle greets me
like a long-awaited fan.

.