Ornament

by Amy Soricelli

The plastic in the tree has survived two winters - maybe three.
Swaying deep into the Bronx breeze flapping its synthetic wings like a flag.
I stare it down like a rare flower - point its edges
towards the sun.
From my high Bronx window I see it dancing back and forth; its claws
bent hard into the knobby branches; angry crusty leafless trees shadow
straight against the glass.
The hardest pressed face couldn't get passed it.
The plastic in the trees has made it through the summer fire crackers.
Each burst of light landing on its bleak side sliding its elbows up for comfort -
resting long black eyes against the random flashing smoke of celebration.
It dances that swallowed holey movement that comes with
the broken, the defeated; the things that land in trees.