by Syd Peck
Humdrum, meaningless existence: I was wrapping apples in the supermarket.
The guys said it couldn’t be done. But with warm air and wind there’s freedom, the sky’s the limit: poor boy makes good. Left the ‘hood, and now riding high up in the blue like the soaring crows and seagulls, those golden boys.
Me?! Just a plastic bag? No way!
They said you’re nobody, man − just another plastic bag, like every one of us. You’ll never amount to anything.
So now look at me, you guys… Oh, I’m a kite, a bird, even a plane. The city looks so small from up here. How come everyone doesn’t make the break? Carpe diem. Take control of your destiny, man.
Oh, oh, no! Descent beyond control! Hey! No… wow, a rising current… whew… Oh-oh! No, no… down… crashing silently into a dog-crapped mud puddle − not with a bang, but a whimper* − and quickly walked over by kids at will, turned into a dirty plastic crumple, useless and destined for burial in a landfill.
And all the other crappy bags hissing in the wind, with the voices singing in my ears saying that this was all folly ** We told you so.
With reference to The Hollow Men and Journey of the Magi by T.S. Eliot