Low Clearance

The pen rolled into the dark and stopped,

forcing my face to the carpet’s pile.

I hadn't planned on seeing what I’d dropped

or staying down here for a while.

A single sock, rigid as a board,

sits by a receipt for some pills I took in May.

It’s a record of things I can’t afford

to look at in the light of day.

I reached for the pen and touched a ghost,

a gray, felted weight of dust and hair.

It’s the part of the year I’ve neglected most

trapped in the dead and airless pocket there.