The Deposit

My boots sound like hammers on the bare floor

now that the rugs have been rolled and tied.

I’ve never noticed the warp in the door

or how much the window frame has lied.

There’s a dark rectangle on the beige wall

where the mirror used to catch the morning light.

It’s a ghost of a shape, standing tall,

reminding me of what I kept out of sight.

The wallpaper is shaded by the years,

a map of the furniture that’s already gone.

I’m leaving the echoes and all the small fears

for the next stranger to find in the dawn.