There is nothing so sad as a clear plastic hospital bag.

Kite-string thin threaded through plastic puckers

pulling at the corners, ripping at the seams

The material trappings of this world lumped at the bottom

Empty expanse of cellophane spread out for the world to see

Contained for safe keeping

Inconsequential in the aftermath

Who cares for scrunchies and soft socks

When the immaterial has left this mortal coil