Standard Slope

The ink was already dry on the page

when I dropped the pen and watched it go.

It didn't just stop; it rolled with a rage

toward the corner, steady and slow.

Three inches of tilt in the kitchen floor

I didn't notice until the keys were mine.

I’ve spent an hour staring at the door,

realizing the frame isn't even a line.

Above the stove, the smoke alarm stays

yellowed and gutted, its battery gone.

I’m living in a house of slanted days

where the gravity is slightly, permanently wrong.