The Floor Plan

I’m packing the boxes and clearing the shelf,

and finding the things that I kept for myself.

The loafers are scuffed and the leather is torn,

the shape of a person who’s tired and worn.

I wore them to walk through the hall of the ward,

when silence was something we couldn't afford.

The salt from the sidewalk has eaten the black,

a rim on the heel that I can’t take back.

They remember the tiles and the hum of the light,

and how I stayed upright through most of the night.