The Gap

The wood is heavy, oak or something like it,

pressing a permanent dent into the carpet.

I dropped my keys and found the hole

where the wall doesn't meet the floor.

There is a Polaroid back there,

the corner curled up like a dead leaf,

turning the color of old butter.

I can see a sleeve, a patch of grass,

someone laughing at a joke I missed

because I let it slide into the dark

three years ago and never moved the furniture.

It’s too late to see the faces now.

The dust has made them part of the house.