Dust Bunny

The movers are gone and the bedroom is bare

except for the rectangles left on the wall.

I’m looking for things that might still be there

in the shadows where the dust bunnies crawl.

I find a single gold hoop in the grime,

coated in gray, fuzzy wool.

It’s been sitting back there for a long stretch of time

while the world kept its rhythmic, hard pull.

It’s tarnished and cheap, a fake-metal thin,

not worth the bend of the knee.

But I remember the night that it slid from my skin

and I was too tired to see.