Coarse

The air in the cellar is heavy and slow.

I'm dragging the boxes away from the wall.

There's nowhere for all of this junk left to go,

and no one is coming to help when I fall.

I grab for the bag with the lime and the grit.

The burlap is rough as it bites at my skin.

I heave it and drop it and wait for a bit

as the dust starts to rise from the fibers within.

A brown, choking cloud fills the light of the bulb.

It settles on rafters and covers the floor.

I'm just a man with a heavy-set pulse,

moving the mess toward the back of the door.