Zinc

The shepherd next door is losing its mind

at a shadow or a cat or just the air.

I’m out in the alley with no shoes on,

my feet feeling every pebble and grain of salt.

The trash bin is cold, a massive gray block

with that mottled skin they give to metal

to keep the rust from eating the heart of it.

I grip the handle, feeling the grit of the zinc.

Under the orange hum of the streetlamp,

it looks like a topographical map of a place

where nothing grows and nobody stays,

just a rough, industrial hide waiting for the truck.