Occupied

The partition is covered in layers of tan,

a thick, peeling lacquer of beige.

I’m reading the scribbles of some lonely man

who used the steel door for a page.

He’s looking for love or a very good time,

and he left his cell number in ink.

The grout in the corner is heavy with slime

and the air has a chemical stink.

In the gap at the bottom, a pair of scuffed boots

are planted like trees in the mud.

I’m waiting for silence, for pulling up roots,

while the fluorescent light beats in my blood.