The Fracture Point

The landlord sent the notice on blue paper.

I went out to the patio to move the heavy things,

the things I let rot when the rain was constant.

The large pot was fused to the ground,

a terra cotta vessel filled with wet silt.

When I pulled, it didn't come away clean.

It crumbled like an old biscuit,

falling apart under the weight of a dead root system

and spilling gray dirt across my laces.

I’m left with one orange shard

wedged into a crack in the concrete

like a broken tooth I can’t stop touching with my tongue.