Demotion

The CPAP machine is doing its heavy lifting

through the wall. A rhythmic, mechanical sigh.

I’m thirty-two. Well, almost thirty-three.

I’m staring at the ceiling where the glow-stars

are still holding their breath, faint and greenish.

There’s a moth in the light fixture,

a crisp, brown flake of a thing that died

while I was away pretending to be an adult.

I dumped my socks on the twin-sized bed.

The wallpaper is peeling in the corner,

a dry, beige tongue sticking out at me.