Floral repeat

The thrift store smell of old lint

and desperation.

Then, the shower curtain,

plasticky, loud.

Roses, faded pink,

on a trellis of sickly green.

It was my wallpaper,

exactly.

The peeling edge where the bed

pressed against the wall.

The dust motes dancing

in a shaft of morning light.

A ghost of a room, in cheap plastic.

Too loud, too close.

Still stuck there, somehow,

a corner lifting.