Under the Oak

The dresser didn't want to move.

I had to brace my feet against the rug

and heave until the floorboards groaned.

There, in the lint and the dead spider husks,

lay the cheap plastic gold of her night out.

Three years is a long time for a ghost to hide.

The backing is snapped, a jagged little tooth.

I touched it and the yellow plating came away

flaking into the carpet like dry skin,

like dandruff from a head that isn't there.

I should have vacuumed the corner in the spring.

Instead I let the dust build its own grave.

Now I hold the bit of plastic in my palm,

knowing I'll just put it back in a drawer,

keeping the break because the mend is too quiet.