The Leak

The tiles are ice against my heels.

I’m staring at the plastic box on the wall,

the little green screen blinking HOLD.

I can never remember if it’s the up arrow

or the button hidden behind the door.

My phone is propped against the toaster,

the screen grayed out by a smudge of flour.

I’ve typed "how to bypass schedule"

three times since the leaves turned brown.

The search bar knows my shame in blue text,

a history of forgetting the same simple click

while the wind whistles through the floorboards.