So, time is like a bottom locker in the men’s changing room at a strip mall gym.
The gym stays open twenty-four hours, seven days a week,
Except for the next two weeks when we’ll be closed for renovations.
So, first I notice all the vents in the doors of the lockers
Have scraps of paper taped over from the inside.
This will prevent over spray from leaking in
When the outside gets painted to match the new color scheme.
Everything used to be purple—a radiant, insisting on itself sort of purple.
The designer we hired suggested sea foam green. Weird
Choice for a box for socks and running shoes,
I thought, but she’s the professional and what do I know.

Anyway, like I was saying, the bottom locker, the one that represents time,
Got the tape like it was supposed to. But the one right above…
Just go across, two sheets of paper, four pieces of tape, each locker, two rows.
Skirting the edge of the county, in the gap between here and there,
How many lockers could this discount fitness fortress need? 32? 43?
Just why anyone would need to take their p.m. smoke break
In the midst of prepping the few lockers for painting
I’ll never be able to guess, but that’s what they did,
Or something else sidetracked their work; point is they skipped one.
Specifically, (you might have seen this coming), they skipped the locker right above the bottom locker symbolizing time.
Because of this, beads of enamel entered through two sets of three slits each,
Dripped down the door’s inside face, and pooled in a resoivoir,
Right at the base of the bottom locker’s latch, and we didn’t notice
Until the paint had dried and sealed the door shut for good.
Now we assume it’s empty, but I don’t see you either placing bets on the void.
Strange liquids abound: milk, honey, antifreeze, and bile.
All the sweaty towels, cold compress breadbags, and forsaken ice cream cones,
Guys love to stow away in here. At this point anything could be growing.