Uncoupled

The nightstand is pulled out toward the center of the rug,

leaving a rectangle of clean wood where the dust couldn't go.

Behind it, the wall is a landscape of forgotten things—

a lost receipt, a penny, a hair tie snapped in two.

And there are the outlets, two pairs of plastic eyes,

looking surprised to be seen after all these months.

They are holding onto nothing but the shadows,

the little dark slits where the brass teeth used to bite

the prongs of a lamp that kept the ghosts away.

I reach for the pen that rolled into the corner,

but stay on my knees for a minute, looking at the wall.

It’s strange how much of a room is just a series of holes

waiting for something to fit into them,

and how quickly they look like a face when they're empty.