That Wall Is Coming Down in April

I drove past it last week and didn't stop,

and I don't know why I'm telling you that

like it means something.

The hallway wall outside my old unit

had been painted over so many times

the surface had gone almost soft—

not soft like fabric,

soft like the building had been trying

to forget its own edges.

There was a scuff at shoulder height

where I stood every night

to check my phone before going inside.

Three years of that.

Three years of standing there

in the specific cold of a hallway

that is neither inside nor outside.

I never thought about the wall.

I leaned against it the way you lean

on something you've stopped seeing.

Now someone texts me it's coming down in April

and I'm sitting here

like I left something in that hallway—

set it down against the soft plaster

and forgot to pick it up

when I moved.