The Soft Spot, Or, The Rotten Plank

I stood there, just to stand, you see,

to watch the nothing happen, free

from what was waiting, just inside.

My hand found wood where rot could hide.

A railing, grey and soft and damp,

a fading, broken, useless lamp.

The paint peeled back, like tired skin,

revealing where the rot began.

A splinter, fine and sharp and slow,

crept under thumb. I didn’t know

what else to do but pull it out.

A small wound, no one cares about.

A knot, like an old, closed-up eye,

stared from the plank, and watched time die.

This porch, it held me, stuck, you see,

and rotting, slowly, just like me.