The Floor's Argument

I fumbled the keys in the hallway.

They didn't bounce, they just landed

with a dull, brass thud on the linoleum.

They looked so comfortable down there,

having given up on the height.

In the corner, the laundry heap

has settled into a permanent slump,

a corduroy mountain with no ambition.

It knows what I am slowly learning:

that the earth is always pulling

on the hem of your coat.

It takes a specific kind of vanity

to keep standing up every morning

when the dirt is so patient,

waiting for the moment your knees

finally agree with the math.