The Weight of the Frame

I dragged the black nylon across the floor.

It gave a dry, rhythmic sort of shriek

against the yellowed tiles by the door.

The left wheel is locked, tired and weak.

I turned it over to find the crime—

a thick wad of hair and gray grit

braided into the axle over time.

It’s a record of everywhere I’ve quit,

every carpet I’ve walked since the day

I decided I couldn't afford to stay.