I can’t witness a plastic bag
dancing in an alley anymore,
without remembering that scene
from American Beauty.
That’s fine, for days
of gentle breezes,
of soft and swirling breezes.
Not for days like this,
when the wind is coming in fierce
and head on,
like a mad bull charging down
from the mountains.
On days like this,
neither the dust,
nor the tumbleweeds,
nor abandoned plastic bags,
want to dance for me—
they want to run from me.
And sometimes on days like this,
I go for a walk outside,
thinking maybe the wind
might carry me away from me too,
like one of those empty bags
that just blew by
and disappeared into the sky…
but it hasn’t happened yet.
Brian Rihlmann lives and writes in Reno, Nevada. His work has appeared in many magazines, including The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and The Main Street Rag. His latest poetry collection, “Night At My Throat,” (2020) was published by Pony One Dog Press.