Layers

The landlord takes twenty minutes to find the pen.

I'm sitting in the corner office, fluorescent light

making everything look tired,

and I'm staring at where the wall meets the wall,

where the corner fold happens,

where someone decided this cream-colored paper

would be permanent.

The edge is coming up.

Just a finger's width, maybe two,

curled back like it's trying to escape,

and underneath is this mustard yellow

that doesn't match anything,

that belongs to a decade nobody's asked for back.

Dust lives in the curl.

I can see it collecting there,

the small debris of the office,

of people waiting for checks,

of fluorescent hours.

He still hasn't found the pen.

I keep looking at that corner

because looking at it is easier

than looking at him,

than asking why this office

looks like someone left it

in the middle of a sentence,

why nothing here

is actually finished,

why the walls are failing

so slowly

that nobody bothers to fix them.

The paper peels more

when you're not looking.

I know this.

I'm looking anyway.