Two Inches of Dead Air

The bed frame shrieked against the floor,

a sound like a hinge on a heavy door.

I was only looking for my phone,

but I found a country I should have left alone.

There is a remote control, half-drowned

in a gray silt of lint, silent and profound.

A single orange peel, dried to a claw,

rests in the draft, in the dark, in the raw.

I could reach down and take it all back,

pull the lost bits from the mouth of the crack,

but I think I’ll just shove the mattress tight

and keep what I’ve wasted well out of my sight.