Scavenger

The hydraulic hiss is a block away.

I’m out on the curb in my mismatched socks,

shoving aside the eggshells and the rinds.

I thought I was strong enough to lose it.

I was wrong.

I find the envelope near the bottom.

It’s damp and smells like wet coffee grounds,

the ink running into a purple bruise.

I wipe the slime onto my thigh.

I’m standing in the street with my trash,

waiting for the neighbors to look out their windows.