Zero Elevation

The orange bottle hit the rug

and spat its contents like a drug.

I had to crawl on hands and knees

to catch the white and round degrees

of temporary, chemical peace

spilled within a carpet crease.

The foam is yellow at the edge.

It peeks beneath the cotton hedge

of a sheet that’s lost its elastic grip.

Every night is a slow, soft slip

toward the floorboards and the dust.

My back is a hinge that’s starting to rust.