Substructure

I’m on my side on the linoleum,

my cheek against a cool, sticky patch.

The earring is gone, probably sucked up

by the vacuum or kicked into the baseboard.

From down here, the table is a different machine.

A hex bolt, rusted at the thread.

A wad of spearmint gum, hard as a pebble,

pressed there by a kid who’s probably grown now.

Then I see the sticker. Inspected: May ‘98.

The same month my father packed the Corolla

and forgot to take his extra set of keys.

I’m just lying here, staring at a date,

while the dust bunnies shiver in my breath.