Industrial

It’s been three years. The floorboards show the cost

of dragging plastic grids across the oak.

A jagged white line, a bit of finish lost—

my own small way of going broke.

The crate is black and stamped with City Dairy.

It holds my lamp, my keys, my stack of mail.

The bills are heavy, the balance is a worry,

but the poly-mesh is never going to fail.

I tell myself I'll buy a nightstand soon,

something with drawers that hide the mess away.

But I just move the crate across the room

and let the scratch get deeper every day.