Load-Bearing

Thursday the handle gave at the base—

not a rip, just the weight going slack.

I stood a moment in the space

of the back steps. Then I brought it back

inside under one arm, beer in the other.

Set it on the counter. Six years.

Farmers market, hardware. The bother

of re-tying the knot twice—it appears

I knew and kept going. The handle folds

over now at the break, pale ends spread

like a cord that's been bent. Three days it holds

its place on the counter. I've said

nothing to myself about it. I keep

walking past. The beer beside it.

I can't explain the pause. The leap

to the trash—I've eyed it

every morning. Still.