Six Inches Above the Joists

The light comes in low, scraping the wood,

revealing the geography of a room gone bare.

I woke up closer to the dust than I should,

breathing in the grit of the stagnant air.

Down here, the world is made of baseboards and feet,

a nickel lost in the corner, a gray hair on the pine.

The fitted sheet has lost its grip on the sheet

of yellowed foam, exposing the desperate line

where the factory glued the layers together.

It’s a temporary harbor, a raft in the swell,

waiting for the arrival of better weather

or a reason to leave this particular cell.

I reach for my socks and feel the cold of the floor

seeping into my ribs through the thin, white pad.

I don't need the frame or the headboard anymore.

I’m learning to live with the little I had.