Ribbed Metal

Behind the dry cleaner's, where the sun don't shine,

the corrugated iron, gray and bent.

Each ridge and furrow, a history in line,

a testament to weather, badly spent.

The bottom's orange, from a slow, sure rust,

the paint peels off in flakes, a sickly green.

Built to last, they said, reduced to dust,

a kind of tired, structural obscene.

It holds a shadow, like it's holding breath.

So many small things built, then left to rot.

Just standing there, waiting for its death.

Another day, another forgotten spot.