The kitchen floor is on a tilt

The kitchen floor is on a tilt,

the house is slowly sliding down.

A monument to old-growth guilt

in a dying, gray-shingled town.

The pantry door won't stay ajar,

it swings shut with a heavy thud.

I need a wedge to stop the jar

of wood on wood, like feet in mud.

I found the book from two-thousand-eight,

stuffed in a closet by the stairs.

It’s thick enough to hold the weight

of all these local, lost affairs.

The onion-pages curl and tear,

crushed beneath the kitchen's slide.

A thousand numbers listed there

with nowhere left for them to hide.