Shelf Life

I cut my thumb on a stack of bills

and went to find a strip of tape.

I pushed aside the little pills

that promised I could still escape.

The glass is slick with spilled-out juice,

a bottle of the syrup from three years back.

The cap is stuck, of no more use,

turning brown and thick and black.

A rusted ring has marked the spot

where a shaving can sat in the damp.

The things I’ve kept, the things I’ve not,

under the buzz of the bathroom lamp.