Three Years Under

I pulled it out from under the seat,

the translucent container, meant

to organize something, make things neat.

But I'd never used it. A dent

or crack ran down the base.

Inside, dust had collected thick,

gray powder filling the space,

waiting for a purpose I wouldn't pick.

Three years under my car.

I'd bought it thinking I'd change,

become someone better, someone far

from myself. But the range

between intention and action

stayed wide. The plastic got brittle.

The dust was my satisfaction—

proof I was a little

bit lazy, a little bit lost.

I held it up to the light.

All that nothing. The cost

of imagining myself right.