Patina of Neglect

The wrench slipped off the brass three times.

I’m trying to shut the water for the frost,

but the spigot is a crust of frozen limes,

a hardened green where the metal’s lost.

I haven't touched this valve in a year,

letting the weeds climb the brick and the pipe.

Now the corrosion is a physical fear,

a chalky bloom that is bitter and ripe.

I scraped a flake with a shaking thumb

and watched it lodge beneath the nail.

Everything turns to salt and goes numb

when you let the upkeep start to fail.