The sky is the color of a threedayold bruise

The sky is the color of a three-day-old bruise.

The air is so heavy it’s sticking to my shoes.

I pull at the handles, the wood is all wet,

with a draft like a secret I haven't told yet.

The padlock is hanging, a lump of red rust,

swinging on a chain that I don’t really trust.

Down in the dark where the spiders all crawl,

the dirt is the only thing standing up tall.