From lines dragging down my wrists
I observed patience in a drop,
Dripping from my pointed forefinger
That rummaged odd bits discarded into
An old tin box.
I was looking for hope,
But instead found rusty nails
That left ocre upon my calloused tip,
Long ago since numb.
Dumping the remains onto the desk, I read out loud the words
That had been etched into the underside
By an uneven hand:
BOX 05 – EVIDENCE
These words sounded hallow,
And my thoughts once again followed
My wrists lines dripping
Onto the desk where an empty cartridge
Slowly rolled back and forth.