A Plague of the Discarded

Why is there this trash on the wind?

In amongst the seagulls, the kites, the airplanes, the lady bugs

are napkins, newsprint, takeout menus, maxipads.

The wind blows across Lake Michigan

sweeping, equally, leaves and kleenex.

How are we subject to this plague

of the discarded?

We've all seen American Beauty

and we all know that scene

with the soaring, hovering, dipping

plastic bag. Yes, I know it was

a bad movie, but such a bad scene?

I mentioned it once, musingly, to a man

who never became my lover

before he never became that.

'That is America,' he said, 'a beautiful piece of trash

caught up by the wind.'

Had he spoken the cold, deep obvious

or the friendly false? I was young then.

That must be why I couldn't tell.

My own material culture, my history of the body

are different these days; still, from my sofa

where I watch the water and spy with terror the swarm of

white and whipping trash, the spectacle of air swimming grandeur,

I cannot fathom the cause, the speed, the elegance, the multitude,

the final resting place

of all this debris.