Hardened Skin

At the hardware store, a line of buckets

stacked. Galvanized. That dull, speckled grey.

Not shiny, not smooth. More like cuts

or tiny pockmarks, holding the light at bay.

It's the skin of things meant to endure.

Like Grandma's wash tub, out by the clothesline.

Solid, unyielding, almost pure

in its purpose. A utilitarian sign

of time. This muted, pebbled texture.

It doesn't ask for praise, or admiration.

Just to hold its shape, to manage the pressure.

A quiet, resolute, metal foundation.

It just sits there, taking the rain, the sun.

When everything else is gone, it's not done.