Treated For Weather

I was counting what I had left—

not much, the week was thin—

walking to the store, the cold bereft

of any warmth, already in

my jacket. Four houses down:

a galvanized can at the edge

of a drive. Dented. The crown

scratched to silver at the wedge

of impact. Zinc gone where it hit.

Still holding its shape, though.

I stood there longer than it

deserved. Did the math. The slow

count of what was left for dinner.

The can not going anywhere.

The cold working deeper, thinner—

I walked. The store was still there.