The bag survives a hundred streets,
Then breaks exactly near my feet.
It carries hope in fragile skin,
Thin plastic stretched by what’s within.
Eggs become a risky prayer,
Tomatoes roll without a care,
I redistribute weight like math,
Trying to outsmart disaster’s path.
Handles dig into my hand,
Leaving marks like reprimands.
Yet cashiers nod with quiet trust,
As if the bag will do its job.
Rain arrives, the bottom tears,
Oranges scatter down the stairs.
Strangers help with practiced grace,
Pretending not to see my face.
Still next week I use them more,
Trusting weakness from the store,
For human faith is strangely built,
On things designed to split and wilt.
