Pressure Point

The drywall is basically dust.

I tried to hang the frame of us in the hall,

but the nail just slid through the plaster

like it was hitting water.

At 2 AM, looking for a glass,

the clear plastic tack found the arch of my foot.

I didn’t scream. I just stood there,

watching the floor.

A single drop of blood,

no bigger than a bead,

bright and round on the dark wood.

The house is falling apart

and I’m helping it.