The Landlord

I reached for the jar of peaches

on the shelf where the dust is deep.

My shoulder didn't swing; it hitched,

a dry, mechanical creep

of bone against bone.

The lease is up on this frame, I think.

I pulled the bandage off my wrist—

the tape was yellowed, starting to stink

of old adhesive and sweat.

It left a gray, sticky square behind,

a map of where I’ve been hurt,

the kind of ghost that’s hard to unbind.