Wear and Tear

The sideboard left a ghost on the wall,

a pale rectangle where the sun never hit.

But the floor is where the real debt lives—

a jagged bloom of iron-gall ink

that soaked into the grain years ago.

I remember the salt, the frantic scrubbing,

how the wood felt scorched and raw

under the heels of my hands.

It didn’t lift. It just settled deeper,

turning the oak into a bruise.

Now the movers are waiting by the door.

I drop a rug over the spot,

knowing the landlord will find it anyway

once the silence starts to pay the rent.