Fire Escape

The fire escape is rusting.

Orange marks on the metal, busting

through the paint. Small at first,

now spreading. I've rehearsed

this worry in my head—

how long until it's dead?

Until the metal gives way?

The rust will have its day.

Flakes come off on my skin

when I touch it. The thin

line between solid and gone

is where it's moving on.

I don't use the escape,

never have. But the shape

of it rusting makes me feel

like something inside is real

and spreading. Like I'm becoming

something else. The humming

of decay. The orange marks

are spreading in the dark.