Cold Cosmetic

The alleyway is usually a throat

of wet cardboard and bags of leaking grease.

But now the sky is shedding a white coat,

a heavy, silent, and temporary peace.

Behind the dumpster, the shopping cart lies,

overturned and rusted, a skeletal mess.

I watch the flakes descend from the gray skies

to give the jagged metal a wedding dress.

It looks like a ribcage under the fluff,

the iron grid disappearing from view.

But I know the white isn’t nearly enough

to make the broken chassis into something new.

By Tuesday, the slush will be soot and grit,

revealing the trash that the weather forgot.

It’s a lie, this beauty, every single bit,

just a bandage over a spot that will rot.