The Baseline

I shoved the heavy oak against the wall,

heaving until the carpet gave its secret away.

There, in a perfect, unmolested rectangle,

was the color the world used to be.

It’s a blinding, ivory ghost of a floor,

while the rest of the room is a tired tan,

weathered by footsteps and the gray drift

of skin cells and the soot from the heater.

I looked down at my own feet,

at the frayed shoelace of my left boot.

It’s stained by iron-rich mud and street salt,

a dingy, matted cord that won't ever wash clean,

anchoring me to the dirt I’ve dragged inside.