Adhesion

I’m hunched in the light of a thirty-watt bulb,

trying to hide where I’ve been.

The couch left its history, a fuzzy result

of living on kindness and gin.

The roller is balding, the adhesive is spent,

but I drag it across my left sleeve.

It pulls at the fabric, a stubborn intent

to fix what I can't quite believe.

There's white hair stuck deep in the weave of the black,

from a dog that I couldn't afford.

He’s three years gone, but he’s still on my back,

a ghost that I keep on the board.