Gravity and Consent

The plastic bag surrendered to the weight,

a jagged tear that let the heavy glass slide.

I stood like stone beside the rusted gate

and watched the jar of peaches take a ride.

It didn't shatter on the concrete curb,

but rolled toward the drain with hollow sound.

Nothing in my pulse felt a disturb

to reach a hand and lift it from the ground.

Now yellow syrup streaks the iron bars,

a sticky amber bleeding toward the dark.

I watch the water drown the golden stars

and leave behind a faint and sugary mark.