Bag

When it's done,

all that's left is what

I've carried.


I'm one of those, over-looked

forgotten browns

yet,

when you need me

you find me


somewhere,



maybe at Krogers or,

a State Liquor store buried

at the end of the check-out line

smooth and flat.



My progenitors have been

dead for hundreds of years,

but, I'm still here,

wasteful, wasted

dead as they are,

dead as you.



I'm sure you don't remember me,

or the many times you've unfolded

my creases, stuffed

me with fifths of E & J or cans of 211

then, after I'd carry

them to a back alley,

you'd throw me away.



Times during renaissance

I'd earn respect

from fraternities and sororities

with my colorism tests.


But now, you can find me

under the Canal street bridge tenting

a man in the middle of winter,


or emptied, crumbled,

and plastering myself

against a neighbor's fence.

[my newest poem]