Against the Fence

The wind just presses it

against the chain-link,

a refrigerator box, flattened.

Once, it held a cold newness.

Now, it holds only

the impression of rain,

dark blotches on the dull brown,

the sharp, bent ridges

catching the thin light

of late afternoon.

It should be gone.

Should have pulped, dissolved

into the wet earth.

But it hangs there,

stuck fast,

a stubborn refusal.

A kind of defiant ruin.

Not breaking down,

just holding its breath,

or what's left of it.