Ground Level

The box spring was a luxury I couldn't afford to move,

so I live down here where the cold air likes to settle.

The carpet has a rough and dusty kind of groove,

and the light from the window is the color of metal.

I spent an hour looking for a left-footed shoe

that rolled into the dark behind the baseboard trim.

It’s a different world from this low-down view,

where the ceiling is a distance, grey and dim.

The yellowed tag on the sheet sticks out like a tongue,

a warning about the law that nobody ever reads.

I’m sleeping on the level where the shadows are hung,

among the lint and the scattered, forgotten seeds.