Blind Spot Geometry

The blueish curtain, my roommate said,

'What's on it?' And my mind went dead.

I stand there, naked, day by day,

watching that plastic, come what may.

But pattern? None. Just vague, blurred shapes.

My brain, a sieve, lets detail 'scapes'

right past, like water down the drain.

A small, specific kind of pain.

The ceramic dish, chipped at the edge,

holding the soap, a silent pledge

of habit. Or the toothpaste cap,

generic white, caught in a trap

of everyday, of knowing not

the curves, the bumps, the tiny dot

of plastic. A shame, a sudden sting,

this constant, unobservant thing.

What else do I ignore, or miss?

Just living in a blank abyss.