The Rectangle

The dresser left a square of dust.

The window glass is thin and cold.

The hinges have a bite of rust

from stories that were never told.

I peeled the tape from off the floor,

the border of a sibling war.

The adhesive stayed, a tacky stain,

to catch the grit and winter rain.

On the ceiling, one plastic star

holds the plaster where it is.

It doesn't glow. It bears a scar

of someone else’s quietness.