The Orange Bite

I tried to force the padlock on the gate

where the ivy has started to swallow the wood.

I didn't think the winter would decide the fate

of a piece of steel I thought was good.

The key gave a groan and then a sharp snap,

leaving the bow of it cold in my palm.

Inside the barrel, a jagged, orange trap

had eaten the tumblers and broken the calm.

It reminds me of the flashlight in the hall closet,

the one with the batteries I forgot to pull out.

They leaked a white crust, a toxic deposit

that turned the brass springs to a powder of doubt.

Everything's biting itself from the inside,

a slow, quiet feast that happens in the dark.

It’s hard to find a place for a person to hide

when even the metal is losing its spark.