The Smallest Debt

The temperature dropped and the sky turned to lead,

bringing the old ghost back to my bed.

It starts in the knuckle, a sharp, biting cold,

from a secret my body is trying to hold.

I reached for a dime that rolled on the floor,

but the joint went stiff near the edge of the door.

It’s crooked and short, with a jagged white line

where the pallet jack claimed what was rightfully mine.

The nail is a ridge, a thick, uneven plate,

a mark of the job and the hand of fate.

The smallest part of me is shouting today,

telling me winter is coming to stay.