The Drop

The crowbar bites into the heavy oak.

I heave it back, an inch of screeching wood,

to find the things the shadows tried to choke,

the scraps of life I never understood.

A slice of crust, as hard and gray as stone.

A single sock, its heel worn thin and black.

It sits there in the dust, stiff and alone,

waiting for a foot that isn't coming back.