Oxidation

I tried to move the wash tub by the fence,

the one he used to soak the muddy rags.

It looked solid enough, a dull zinc grey,

until the handles came away like paper

and the whole bottom stayed in the dirt.

An orange dust puffed up against my shins,

staining the hem of my clean white shirt.

It’s a slow fire, this salt and humid air,

eating the iron out of everything he owned

until there’s nothing left but the shape of a tool.

I looked at my palms, smeared with the grit,

a dry, metallic blood that wouldn't shake off.

I am standing in the yard of a man who stopped,

watching the things he built turn into a stain

that the rain will eventually carry away.