Institutional Floor

My key fell. A small, sharp clink.

I knelt. The linoleum, a dull shine.

The pattern, grid upon grid, made me think

of graphs, of lives, of yours, of mine.

Scuff marks like old bruises, black, deep.

And there, a thing, gray, petrified gum.

Pressed hard, a history it tried to keep.

Stuck, where all the lost things come.

The floor never breaks. It only wears.

So many feet, so many quiet steps.

Bearing everything. Its small affairs.

Holds the dirt, the silent, slow creeps.