Flat

The hardware store clerk

called this color Morning Mist.

It looks like nothing,

which is what I wanted

for this room.

I ran the roller up the drywall

until it hit the slick spot

by the doorframe.

The paint won’t catch.

It just slides over the smudge

of three years of leaning

my shoulder there to yank on my boots.

It’s a gray map of my skin,

oil and coat-sleeve friction

turned into a permanent stain.

The more I try to hide it,

the more the texture shows

how long I stood here

waiting for a reason to leave.