Treated

Two years I walked past it and never stopped.

The coating held its silver, caught the light

the way it's designed to—nothing dropped,

no sign of anything not right.

This morning: one curl at the post's base,

the zinc peeled back in a strip so clean

it looked deliberate. Underneath, a trace

of orange that had been there, unseen,

for months at least. The kind of rust

that moves in the dark beneath a surface

that's doing its job. You have to trust

the surface. That's the whole purpose.

I missed my train. Stood on the sidewalk

thinking about the factory—the dip,

the hot zinc, the long guarantee of talk

about protection. The convincing grip

of something that looks fine.