The landlord picked a carpet

The landlord picked a carpet

that feels like a funeral suit,

all synthetic friction and a chemical smell

that won't let the air move.

I dragged the dresser across the hall,

carving two deep ruts into the pile,

dead tracks that won't ever bounce back.

It’s the same shade as the box

I keep in the top drawer.

Inside, the purple velvet is matted down

by the oil of a ring I haven't seen in years.

A dark, oval ghost where the gold sat

before the rent went up and the luck went cold.