The Capacity for Rot

The landlord's voice is a flat, dry stone

skipping across the messages I haven't deleted.

I look at the bin behind the grocery store,

green paint flaking off in scabs of oxidized iron.

A gull is tugging at a bread crust

locked inside a plastic sleeve,

dragging it across the rim

where the hinge is a row of rusted teeth.

It’s a wide, metal mouth for the things we couldn't keep.

I stand there wondering how much of me

would fit inside before the lid

clangs shut and hides the debt.