The Snitch

There is a gap by the baseboard where the oak has pulled free,

a secret the carpenters left in the floor.

It waits for the weight of a person like me

to announce every move that I make to the door.

I’m trying to walk like a ghost through the hall,

my socks barely touching the grain of the wood.

But the house is a witness that’s built in the wall,

reminding me exactly where I have stood.

It’s a sharp, wooden yelp in the middle of three,

a dry, snapping sound in a room full of gloom.

I can’t even move without having to be

the loudest thing living in this quiet room.