Shopping Carts

Trash

suspended perfectly

in the spines of a yucca plant

frozen in its flight

like a bird of the desert

as a car spits out

sick clouds,

riding low to the ground

following the storm drains

an old man holds himself up

on aluminum wings

as he walks down Central--

the wind tells him

which way to coast.

I wonder if he flew too close

to a son

and fell to Earth here.

I hand the man a dollar

I know I'm not supposed to.

he says thank you in his own tongue

and smiles no teeth at me.

There are angels here.