The Oval

The clip is orange with rust, a stubborn bit of grit

shoved deep in the wool of a coat I rarely wear.

I pull it out and feel the weight of it,

and for a second, I expect to see you there.

We moved the bookshelf in to hide the spot

where the beige carpet stayed pressed and flat.

An oval where you slept, whether it was cold or hot,

and now the fibers are just dead, and that is that.

It’s been four years since the hallway felt too wide,

since I stopped checking the floor before I stepped.

I put the clip on the counter and stay inside,

hating how well the house has finally been swept.