Under the Box Spring

The bed scraped, a dry cough

on the floorboards, pushing back

from the wall. And there it was,

a flattened box,

gray with the dust of years.

A small forgotten continent

against the baseboard,

a perfect fit for its neglect.

Inside, polaroids.

Small, faded squares,

like old postage stamps from a country

I barely remember living in.

Faces blurred,

the light a sepia ghost.

I picked one up.

The surface cool,

a tiny pane of glass

reflecting nothing

but the dirt on my thumb.