I lean on the laminate cold and scarred

I lean on the laminate, cold and scarred,

where the diner light hits the bone just as hard.

The skin is a landscape of ash and of grit,

a dry, folded valley where the years like to sit.

I see it reflected in the glass of the door,

a hinge that’s been swung for a decade or more.

The sandpaper texture is proof of the miles,

hidden in sleeves and forgotten in files.