The 19th Year

I was digging for a battery to fix the remote

and found this cord tangled in a hair tie.

It smells like a box in a basement,

rough and brown, catching on the wood of the drawer.

I used to wear it every day,

thinking a piece of green glass could save my soul

or at least get me through a shift at the warehouse.

The hemp is fraying now, shedding little fibers

like the person I was when I thought

the cheapest beer in the city tasted like freedom.