Dead Weight

The blue plastic shell

is still sitting by the radiator,

a squat, uninvited guest.

I caught my shin on the telescoping handle

at three in the morning,

the kind of sharp, dull pain

that makes you want to hit something back.

The left wheel is choked

with a thick, gray knot of carpet lint

and several strands of hair—

probably mine, probably his.

It doesn't roll anymore.

It just drags, leaving a dark scuff

on the linoleum

that I’ll have to scrub later

when he finally answers his phone.