The Second Month

The mail is a mountain of plastic and bill,

and tucked in the middle is January’s ghost.

I bought it to prove I had iron and will,

but the things that we want are the things we fear most.

The spine hasn't cracked and the pages are white,

a desert of potential I’m too tired to cross.

I promised to document every new light,

but all I’ve recorded is stillness and loss.

I flipped it over and saw the small tag,

the twenty-buck cost of a better-built man.

It’s just another rag in the bottom of the bag,

the sticky remains of a broken-down plan.