Permanent Guest

I moved the stack of car magazines today,

the ones with the curled edges and the dust.

Underneath, the wood had given up its color,

a jagged white ring like a circle of rust.

It’s where I left the glass in November

when the heaters were knocking in the wall.

I forgot about the condensation,

letting the slow, salt-rimmed damage crawl.

The grain has swollen under the finish,

a raised scar where the moisture bit in deep.

It’s a map of every night I sat right here

and waited for a shift in my sleep.

You can’t buff out a mark like that.

It’s part of the furniture now, I guess.

A pale, unblinking eye on the table

watching the rest of the mess.