Waiting for the Buzzer

I’m leaning my back on the heater’s cold metal,

waiting for the dust in this kitchen to settle.

I found a gray smudge underneath my left nail,

the color of plaster, dusty and pale.

It felt like that wall by my very first door,

where the stucco was rough and the carpet was poor.

I’d lean there for hours, just waiting for the ring,

my shirt catching snags on that jaggedy thing.

The texture was mean but it held up my weight

while I stood in the hallway and cursed being late.