Permanent Weight

It cost me five dollars at the back of the store,

a heavy lamp sitting on the linoleum floor.

It’s cold to the touch and it smells like a coin,

the kind of solid weight no one can purloin.

Near the base is a thumbprint of oxidation,

a green, crusty map of some old frustration.

I tried to scrub it with a rag and some spit

but the metal is stubborn; it’s keeping its grit.

My fingers still carry that sharp, copper scent.

It reminds me of letters that never were sent.

Some things stay behind when the people go,

getting darker and heavier, moving too slow.