Horizontal

The paper on the table crinkles

like a secret being stepped on.

The hum is a flat, yellow noise

stuck in the back of my throat.

Above me, the tiles are a grid

of tiny, punched-out shadows.

There is a stain near the vent,

an amber-edged coast of a country

where no one has to get a shot.

It hasn't changed. The air is still

sharp with alcohol and old magazines.

I wait for the door to click,

staring at the border of the leak.