Store Credit

The crawlspace has a heavy scent of silt.

I find the box of things we never built.

The packing tape has turned a jaundiced hue,

a brittle seal on what I thought I knew.

I drag the cardboard out across the floor.

It weighs as much as any closing door.

The metal teeth of the dispenser grip

and tear the wool along my cuff and hip.

Inside, the linens wait in plastic shrouds,

as white as high and disinterested clouds.

They smell of limestone and a quiet shelf,

a gift I’ll have to open by myself.