Holding Rust

Fingers run along the fence—

rust flecked metal, cold and rough.

Galvanized once, now worn,

a stubborn hold against decay,

clinging despite the rain’s slow bite.

Red dust gathers in corners,

twisting loose the edges,

a quiet surrender I watch without touching.

It stands still, a memory in metal,

the fight to last in a world that’s always falling apart.