Underneath the Scratches

The phone slid from my hand

during the quiet explosion,

a dull clatter under the table.

I bent, then crawled, into the dark.

The wood above me, scarred,

a landscape of forgotten dinners.

Chewed gum, flat and gray,

clung like a fossil.

A faded sticker, half-peeled,

said 'I ❤️ NY' from some tourist trip.

Dust motes danced, slow,

in the thin light from the window,

a world unseen.

I lay there a moment,

phone forgotten,

just breathing in the quiet grit.

It felt safer, somehow,

than the air above.