The sun is cutting rectangles of grey

The sun is cutting rectangles of grey

across the rumpled landscape of the bed.

I watch the ceiling fan as it starts to sway,

a slow and rhythmic pulsing in my head.

I found a brown elastic on the wood,

a cheap and flimsy thing I don't recall.

I'd throw it in the trash bin if I could

reach the plastic liner down the hall.

The spare pillow has a hollow in the center,

a shallow print where someone's weight once lay.

I’m a landlord letting anyone enter,

letting the morning wash the rent away.