Floor Level

The ceiling's a sky

I can't quite reach.

This mattress, a raft,

stuck on a cold beach.

Dust motes drift slow

in the thin morning light.

A halo of grey

around my long night.

My back feels the floor,

the hard, cold press.

Like a provisional life,

this ongoing mess.

Just passing through,

or so I still say.

But the sheets are worn thin,

and I sleep here every day.