Sheathing

They're boarding up the shop on the corner.

The guy who knew where the washers were

is gone, and the glass is disappearing.

I touched the edge of a new sheet today,

raw and splintered and smelling of glue.

There was a Grade C stamp in bright blue ink

bleeding into the grain of the wood.

It’s a cheap way to hide a hole,

rough enough to draw blood

if you slide your hand too fast.