The stud is never where you think it is
by Blk
· 10/02/2026
Published 10/02/2026 15:28
The stud is never where you think it is.
A hollow thud, a crack, a lack of aim.
One in the morning is no time for biz
like hanging mirrors or fixing a frame.
A hammer finds a thumb instead of wood.
The drywall winces, coughing up its chalk.
A muffled sob—I’d help him if I could,
but we aren’t built for that specific talk.
The white dust drifts against my baseboard edge,
a little ghost of everything he missed.
I sit here on my own sharp, silent ledge
and watch the plaster turn into a fist.