Industrial Grade

The Westside Dairy logo is caked in gray,

a plastic fossil from a different day.

I wiped the dust to see the stolen name,

and felt a sudden, sharp and localized shame.

Now that the new nightstand is in the hall,

this crate looks like a punch-line on the wall.

It’s held my boots, my books, my heavy glass,

waiting for the years and the rent to pass.

The waffle-patterned bruise upon my thigh

is a mark of the things I couldn't buy.

I drag it to the curb and leave it there,

an empty cube of black and winter air.