Salvage Rights

I waited until the neighbors pulled their curtains,

then I stepped out to the curb in my socks.

The plastic liner was heavy and slick,

smelling of eggshells and the sour heat of coffee grounds.

I reached past the rinds and the junk mail,

feeling the cold grease of a dinner I didn't finish

until my fingers found the wet, crumpled square—

the receipt with your number scrawled in blue ink.

It’s stained with a brown circle from a leaky bag,

and the paper is soft, almost turning to pulp.

I hold it like a bird with a broken wing,

standing in the driveway, covered in the things I rejected,

trying to read the digits before the dampness wins.