Tatters

The plastic is waving goodbye,
so it seems to me,
and I wonder where it is I’m going,
since the bag is caught
securely in the twigs of a tree
and will not get free
until it's reduced to tatters. 

And what of me?
If it's tatters it takes to release me,
tatters I'll be
when the long rake of death
starts collecting.
But why this tree?
This tree with a bag in its middle.

The branches freely rattle and squeak
where they rub each other,
but do not move away from the trunk.
A trunk they might pack for trips
is only my imagination.
I, also, am not inclined to travel.
So why does the plastic keep waving?

Bag or poke, you know,  
has always been a symbol of “leaving.”
Trees, too, need jokes.