The sun is baking fruit gone soft and wrong

The sun is baking fruit gone soft and wrong,

a syrup of peaches leaking on the street.

A man in a pinstripe suit just walked along

and dropped his lunch—some bread and half the meat—

into the green metal mouth that never shuts.

He wiped his palms on a handkerchief of silk

like he’d just done a job that took some guts,

then disappeared to buy a pint of milk.

I’m keeping things I don’t even like anymore.

I’m making room for things I’ll never use.

The lid is propped by a chair leg from a store

that closed ten years ago. We always lose

the battle with the pile. The rust is deep.

It stays open like a secret you can't keep.