The Grate

The cabbage smell is thick and old,

the radiator’s losing hold.

I step out on the rusted grate

to see if I can lose some weight.

The cigarette is just a spark,

a falling star inside the dark.

It hits the dumpster with a ping,

a tiny, dirty, glowing thing.

The iron bars are cold and deep,

leaving marks I’ll probably keep.

They leave a ladder on my skin,

of where I’ve been and where I’m in.