The Polished Kickplate

The phone is a heat against my ear.

I’m on my knees with a rag and a tin of paste,

working the brass plate at the foot of the door

until the metal gets hot and the air smells like pennies.

My reflection is a wide, distorted face,

pulled at the chin by the curve of the metal.

The black sludge on the cloth reveals a deep gouge,

a long, jagged mark from a boot or a crate.

I’m the one who put it there,

though I don't remember the strike.