Capacity

The blue bin at the curb is a throat

swallowing the decade they spent

trying to like the same movies.

The men in orange vests don't care

about the spring-shot velvet

or the way the rain makes the stuffing

heavy as a wet dog.

They heave the armchair up and over.

The rusted hinge of the lid bites down,

snagging a scrap of floral fabric—

a small, pink flower torn at the root.

It stays there, flapping in the exhaust,

while the rest of the house

gets crushed into manageable cubes.