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.