The Gap at the Bottom

The landlord is coming with a plane and a saw

to fix the frame that let the winter through.

I’ve watched the rug curl like a broken jaw

for three long years while I stayed put for you.

I’m holding the trash, a bag of heavy plastic,

while the kitchen clock strikes a singular beat.

The idea of leaving feels sudden and drastic

as the streetlamp catches the toe of my feet.

One step would break the seal of the house,

but the light doesn't reach to the floor inside.

I stand in the draft like a quiet mouse,

waiting for the tide to decide on the tide.