The bag lies folded on the park bench

The bag lies folded on the park bench,

a blotch dark as spilled secrets

spreading slow like a shadow

that refuses to dry.

It bleeds through the brown fibers,

a silent confession of hunger,

carelessness caught in the fold,

a smear that refuses to fade.

The sandwich slipped, wet and soft,

a mess made public beneath sky’s gray eye,

a greasy badge of a day undone,

an oil slick on the edge of memory.

I stare at the stain—

a stubborn mark that won’t unstick,

a small, defiant scar left behind,

little proof that I was here,

that I was careless, that I was hungry.