The View from the Floor

I followed the pen to the land of the dust,

where the bolts are beginning to orange with rust.

The plywood is raw and the finish is thin,

driving a splinter deep under my skin.

I saw a gray wad of some stranger’s old gum,

stuck to the wood by a finger or thumb.

It’s been there for years in the dark and the grit,

while I eat my dinner right over it.