The Exact Wrong Number

The window frame, a stubborn sort of square,

I tried to measure for a blind, up there.

Yellow metal, thin, it fought against my pull,

then snapped back hard, precise and cold and cruel.

A sting, a tiny bead of red, on my thumb's tip,

the chrome edge bit me, made my body skip

a beat. I tried again, my hand began to shake.

Every number, every inch, a small mistake.

This kitchen, it's not mine, these walls don't bend,

and I can't force my space to make amends.

Too wide, too narrow, never quite enough,

this cheap tape proves it, makes my breathing rough.

It coils itself, a viper, on the floor,

too exact for all the ways I am unsure.

Always an inch or two, just off the mark,

a ghost of measurement, lost in the dark.