The Residuals

I popped the latches on the Gibson case

and found a ghost staring back at my face.

A silver spoon tucked in the velvet fold,

the bottom scorched black, heavy and cold.

I thought I’d buried that shaking year,

but the metal is heavy with a familiar fear.

It’s like the puddle by the pharmacy door,

a rainbow-slick of oil on the floor.

It looks like light, but it’s only a stain,

swirling its colors in the cold of the rain.

It’s a beautiful poison, a shimmering trap

waiting for a foot to fall in its lap.