Orange Dust

The pipe came away in my hand

like a scab pulled off too soon.

I’m knee-deep in a copper land

on a Tuesday afternoon.

The threading is a jagged mess

of rust and ancient scale.

It’s the physics of a long distress

where the metal starts to fail.

I smell like pennies and the dark

underneath the kitchen floor.

Looking for a tiny spark

behind a locked and bolted door.