Glossy Finish

It fell out of a paperback on its way to the bin,

a square of glossy paper with a white border.

The person in the frame has a paper-thin grin,

standing in a room in some forgotten order.

I don’t remember the face or the name of the place,

but the carpet is a violent, swirling maroon.

That ugly pattern is the only remaining trace

of a weekend spent in a generic afternoon.

The corners are yellowing, the chemicals failing,

turning the sky into a bruised and sickly grey.

Memory is a boat that’s constantly sailing

away from the shore, leaving the debris to stay.