Rust Bloom

The alley, always

smelling of damp earth and something else,

something metallic and old.

An overturned lid, galvanized,

just waiting.

Months it lay there,

a dull, curved shield

against nothing much.

Today, the rain had pooled,

a shallow mirror.

And in that silver bowl,

a slow burn.

Deep orange,

streaks like old blood,

bled from the center,

crawling over the lip,

staining the gray.

A bruise on metal,

patiently spreading.

No sudden break.

Just the quiet work

of turning to dust,

one drop at a time.