Payload

The plastic gave way at the second landing.

A can of chickpeas and the 2% milk

tumbled down the wet concrete,

sounding like a series of dull thuds

in the stairwell’s throat.

I stood there with the rain dripping

off the hem of my coat,

staring at the red welt carved

into the webbing of my thumb.

The skin is white where the handle bit,

a map of how much I tried to carry

in a single trip.