Two Uses

I grabbed the deli bag twice.

Once for the sandwich,

once for the documents

I needed to carry home.

I didn't think.

Didn't consider

what lived in the paper,

what the grease could do

to something else.

When I got there,

the stain was spreading—

dark brown,

soaked through the fibers,

marking the words

I needed to keep clean.

The papers are readable.

The stain doesn't hide them.

But it marks them,

and that marking

won't fade.

This is the kind of ruin

that happens quietly.

Not from disaster.

Not from malice.

Just from using the wrong container,

just from not thinking

that what I carry

can touch

what matters.

The bag is soft.

The grease is permanent.

The papers smell faintly

of meat now,

of the moment

I didn't care

enough

to find something better.