Gross Margin

The rain is coming down in greasy sheets.

I’m wrist-deep in the plastic bag,

moving the rinds and the sodden receipts

while the neighbors’ window stays dark and flagged.

I found the envelope tucked in the grit,

stained with a smear of tomato and oil.

The watermark is ruined by it,

the ink starting to bleed and to spoil.

The car isn’t worth the work of the sale,

but I stand in the mud and I hold the proof.

The paper is limp and the light is pale,

tapping a pattern against the roof.