The Unseen Gap, Or, Lint and Forgotten Coins

That button, stupid thing,

popped off a shirt,

rolled, then vanished.

Behind the bed, of course.

A small, dark chasm.

I wedged myself,

hip against the frame,

dust motes dancing in the shaft

of sunlight I’d let in.

And there it was.

Not just the button.

A petrified Cheerio, pale orange,

stuck to the baseboard,

a tiny fossil.

Lint, a whole landscape

of gray fluff,

and a bent paperclip,

a coin, green with age.

It smells of old neglect,

like a drawer of things

you mean to sort, but never do.

All these small,

lost bits,

just settling,

out of sight.

What else collects,

unseen,

in the narrow gaps?