The Ribs of Things

He knocked twice.

The second knock is never about the box.

I finally brought it inside and tore the tape

in the wrong direction, and the corrugated layer

came apart — all those hollow channels

running the length of it,

the parallel ribs, the honeycomb of air

between the walls. I held the torn piece

and looked at it longer than I needed to.

That kind of structure. Built to be invisible.

To take the weight of whatever comes first

and not be seen doing it.

I stepped on it eventually.

One flat crack, and then I swept it up,

and the landlord hasn't knocked since.