Friction

The man on the screen

is knocking down a wall

without making a sound.

I’ve looked at every

chipped plastic chair

and the dead fern

in the corner.

I run my thumbnail

down the side of my leg,

a rhythmic, dry zip

that I can feel

in my teeth.

The ridges are tired.

At the knees,

the velvet valleys

have been worn

completely bald,

just smooth, shiny islands

reflecting the blue

of the silent TV.