The Hungry Ghost Realm
On branches impaled they flutter in the wind
Above the dirt like prayer flags;
And in the open sewer she’s splashing in
They float serene and lotus-like: the bags,
The little, plastic bags that choke this slum.
But joy, through dusk, is pulsing on her who sits
Erect on the cracked cement, all still: some
Child bodhisattva ardor hits
To enter the world, the liquid world in light
That pours out from the shimmering TV set
To play upon her shining eyes. She'll fight
Monk-like this life to get there yet
Never will. Better if she awoke
To the earth the little plastic bags choke.
-- Dan D'Agostino