Crate Seat Under Flickering Light

Cracked plastic pressed into my thighs,

rough edges cut through denim’s guise.

Milk crate sits on cracked stoop stones,

taped and patched, a makeshift throne.

Streetlight sputters, coughs its glow,

a shaky pulse I come to know.

Night exhales cool, a restless breath,

while waiting here feels close to death.

Neighbors’ voices leak and fall,

but here I sit, outside it all.

The crate hums low, holds my weight,

a silent witness to my wait.

No cushion soft, no polished grain,

just this hard seat and flickering pain.

Tonight, it’s all the comfort I find,

a crooked throne for a restless mind.