The knocking was a rhythmic wooden thud

The knocking was a rhythmic, wooden thud

that pulled me from a sleep I didn't want.

I swung my legs out, heavy as the mud,

to face the light, so surgical and gaunt.

My soles hit the linoleum like a slap,

a sudden cold that bit into the bone.

I felt the dust, the dry and gritty trap

of cat litter and crumbs I'd left alone.

I hobbled to the door to find a man

who had the wrong apartment and a bill.

He looked at me as only strangers can,

while I stood shaking on the frozen sill.