Compact Disc

The warehouse floor is still in my lungs,

that dry, metallic taste of box dust.

I fumbled my keys by the storm grate,

the metal clinking against the concrete lip

before sliding into the black soup of the gutter.

I had to reach past a flattened soda cup

and a sodden receipt to find the ring.

Right next to my thumb, half-buried in the silt,

was the back of a CD, scratched into a map.

The oily purple and lime green

burned against the gray mud like a secret.