Insulation

It was rolling in the trunk under a spare tire,

a green steel cylinder, a relic of the fire

we used to build by the lake when the air was still cold

and the stories we told hadn't started to fold.

I unscrewed the cap and the gasket was dry,

a smell like old pennies and a gray, cloudy sky.

There was a teaspoon of coffee, black as a bruise,

fermenting in the dark with nothing to lose.

I put it on the table but the bottom is bent,

a dent in the metal for every cent spent.

It wobbles and leans like a man on a crutch,

retaining a heat that I no longer touch.