Chrome Fragment

A toaster handle lies broken on cracked pavement,

chrome chipped and scratched,

caught the sun in a slant that stings.

I touched it, cold and sharp,

a slice of something shiny

left behind like a secret.

Cars blurred past, their reflections

sliding off the curve,

a dull gleam, a lost promise

caught in the wreckage of the street.

Chrome doesn’t rust, they say,

but this piece knows

how it feels to break,

to lie forgotten beneath a dying sky.