Square Footage

The magnet is losing its grip on the door,

holding up July like a shield of lead.

'Meeting' in red, then 'Meeting' in blue,

and a 'Dentist' in pencil above my head.

The corners are furred like a winter coat,

soft where my thumb has pulled the page.

The staples are screaming, losing their throat,

trapping my life in a paper cage.

My girl wants the park on a Tuesday at four,

but the square is already bleeding ink.

I’m looking for space on the kitchen floor

where a person has room to sit and think.