Rot and Rust

The alley breathes sour, ripe with heat,

a smell of fruit gone bad,

thick and sticky, clinging to the back of my throat.

A rat darts, sandwich clutched,

dark eyes glinting in the chipped light.

The dumpster leans, its lid crooked,

graffiti peeling like old scabs,

names half-forgotten under grime.

Rust eats at the metal’s ribs,

slow and relentless, like the hours

spent watching things decay.

The world here smells of endings,

of scraps no one wants,

a silent rot that crawls beneath.