Structural Support

I peeled away the flyer for a pizza place

that went out of business back in twenty-one.

The wall behind it is a bright, unweathered space,

a ghost of how the paint looked before the sun.

A single pushpin fell and hit the floor,

rolling under the radiator's iron teeth.

It left a jagged hole in a face I don't see anymore,

tearing the paper to show the brown pulp underneath.

A thick layer of silt sits on the take-out menu,

grey as the dust on a forgotten shelf.

This is the archive, the only staying venue

for the versions of me I can no longer help.