Crate Seat

That milk crate—

its plastic edges sharp

against the back of my legs,

a surface meant for stacking,

now holding me upright.

A bus ride dropped me two blocks short,

so I sat there, breathing

between coughs, feeling

how something discarded

can still hold weight.

People passed without a glance,

busy ghosts wrapped in jackets,

hands shoved in pockets,

everyone in a hurry

except for me, parked on plastic.

The crate held a cracked sidewalk,

the weight of waiting,

a temporary throne

for a moment that was mine

but almost forgotten.