Shelf Life

I was going to be the person

who breathes through the tightness.

Instead, I’m digging for the heavy parka

and I trip over the cylinder of foam.

It’s still in the shrink-wrap,

gathering a skin of factory dust

and kitchen grease behind the bin.

I pull the plastic back a little—

the smell of new rubber is sharp,

like an eraser that hasn't touched the page.

February has a way of turning

every bright start into a lump of blue

cluttering up the corner of the room.