The Molting Room

The sound woke me up—

a dry, papery scrape

like a snake shedding its skin

in the corner by the radiator.

A strip of faded roses

has finally let go of the plaster,

curling down in a tired spiral

to show the mint green underneath.

And under that, a beige so flat

it looks like the desert,

layers of people who ate their toast

and stared at these same four walls

long before I was even a thought.

The paste has turned to dust,

flakes of it littering the hardwood

like the dandruff of a house

that is tired of holding itself together.