Tetanus

The canvas bag smells like a cellar floor.

I’m digging through what’s left of his war.

I pricked my thumb on a rusted needle kit

and sat in the dust for a little bit.

The bandage I found is rolled up tight,

tucked away from the garage light.

There’s a brown stain there, a spot of rust—

or maybe it's blood, under all this dust.

It smells like iron and the damp, cold earth.

I wonder what a puncture wound is worth.

My finger is throbbing, a bright, hot red.

I should probably go inside instead.